SOUTH 

OF  THE 

LINE 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY-  LOS 


EX-LIBRIS 

R'S. 

BOOKS  BY  RALPH  STOCK 


Fiction 

THE  RECIPE  FOR  RUBBER 

THE  PYJAMA  MAN 

MARAMA:  A  TALE  OF  THE  SOUTH  PACIFIC 

BEACHCOMBINGS 

SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Travel 

THE  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  TENDERFOOT 

THE  CHEQUERED  CRUISE 

THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  DREAM  SHIP 


South  of  the  Line 


By 
Ralph  Stock 


Garden  City  New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,   BT 

RALPH  STOCK 

Af.T.    RIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF    TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN   LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE   SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYRIGHT,    1919,    BY  THE  CUBTIS  PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

IN  THE  UNITED   STATES   AND   GREAT  BRITAIN 

COPYRIGHT,    1919,    1921,    BY   P.    F.    COLLIER   &    SON    COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY    INTERNATIONAL    MAGAZINE    CO. 

COPYRIGHT,    1922,    BY  DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE   &    COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  THE  FRANK  A.   MUNSEY  COMPANY 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 
THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 

First  Edition 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


SlRjOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES 1 

THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 25 

THE  PRETENDERS         46 

THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER 69 

THE  PEEP  SHOW 92 

THE  LONELY  LADY .  106 

MALUA 123 

THEIR  TROUBLES 141 

MOTHER-OF-PEARL 151 

HIT  OR  Miss 167 

Roo  OF  THE  ATOLLS 183 

WE  OF  MALITA 194 

THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER 217 

" — How  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES" 230 

THE  MASCOT 240 

THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA 254 

BARTER 271 

THE  LAUGH.     .   *.     .     .     .     »     .     .     •     •     •     •  28^ 

THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM        306 

THE  SPELL  320 


2132823 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

SlRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES 

THE  launch  swung  gracefully  into  the  cove,  and, 
churning  the  indigo  water  into  a  white  lather 
with  its  reversed  propeller,  came  to  rest  like  a 
great  hurricane   bird  poised  on  the  gently  heaving 
bosom  of  the  Pacific. 

Out  of  the  world  it  had  come,  the  great  world  of 
Levuka,  and  perhaps  beyond,  into  this  little  coral  beach 
of  Luana,  for  what  purpose  only  the  Great  Spirit  knew. 
Felisi  squatted  at  the  edge  of  the  family  taro 
patch,  the  handle  of  the  heavy  hoeing  knife 
resting  in  her  listless  hand,  watching  wide- 
eyed. 

"This  is  it,"  came  a  voice,  clear  as  a  bell, 
over  the  water.  "Yes,  I'm  sure  this  is  it; 
I  marked  it  by  the  forked  palm  yonder." 

Now,  Felisi  understood  this,  or,  at  any  rate,  the  drift 
of  it.  Had  she  not  sold  imitation  pink  coral  on  the 
wharf  at  Levuka?  And  was  not  Levuka  the  centre  of 
the  world,  where,  when  the  steamer  came  in,  people 
were  so  many  that  the  wharf,  the  street,  and  the  giant 
houses  swarmed  with  them  like  fish  in  the  rock  pools 
at  low  tide?  Strange  people  they  were,  especially  the 

i 


2  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

women,  covered  with  unnecessary  clothes  and  trailing 
brightly  hued  veils  in  their  wake.  They  spoke  in 
harsh,  high-pitched  voices,  too,  and  seemed  for  ever 
restless;  but  their  money — ah,  their  money  flowed  from 
them  like  a  stream  of  quicksilver,  that  only  needed 
diverting  into  the  right  channels,  by  means  of  pink  coral 
or  necklaces  of  seed,  to  make  one  wealthy  beyond  be- 
lief. 

"What  a  darling!"  one  of  these  women  had  said  on 
the  wharf,  catching  sight  of  Felisi  in  her  modest  blue 
wrapper.  "My  dear,  look  at  the  child's  hair!  And  such 
eyes!"  Felisi  had  suffered  the  mauling  that  followed — 
the  stroking  of  her  hair  and  velvety  skin — with  becom- 
ing modesty,  but  she  had  learnt  that  she  was  a  "dar- 
ling," that  she  possessed  hair  and  eyes,  and  that  they 
and  a  reed  basket  of  worthless  coral  netted  her  mati- 
quali  (tribe)  five  shillings.  Oh,  it  was  wonderful  what 
could  be  learnt  in  Levuka!  After  it,  Luana  was  a  tomb. 

People  had  begun  to  move  under  the  wide  awning  of 
the  launch,  and  presently  a  native  dived  cleanly  from 
the  bows.  The  water  was  up  to  his  neck,  and  he  slowly 
dragged  the  launch  nearer  shore.  "When  he  had  waded 
waist  deep,  he  backed  against  the  gunwale,  and  a  man 
in  white  ducks,  with  his  trousers  rolled  to  the  knee, 
climbed  on  his  shoulders  and  was  carried  ashore.  An- 
other white  man  followed  in  like  manner,  and  they  both 
stood  on  the  wet  sand,  directing  the  natives  as  they 
landed  bundles  of  all  shapes  and  sizes  neatly  sewn  in 
green  rot -proof  canvas.  It  seemed  to  Felisi  that  the 
entire  merchandise  of  Levuka  had  been  shipped  to 
Luana  for  some  inscrutable  reason. 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES      3 

"I  think  that's  the  lot,"  said  the  taller  of  the  two 
visitors,  a  gaunt  man  with  remarkably  thin  legs  and 
large  feet,  and  a  kind  though  careworn  face. 

"Yes,  Sir  John,  that  is  all,"  replied  the  other.  He 
was  short  and  pink,  and  perspiring  freely. 

"Then  you  may  as  well  get  on  with  it." 

The  tall  man  turned  and  strolled  along  the  beach, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  burrow  into  the  wet  sand  with 
his  toes,  and  unearth  the  queer  live  things  that  lived 
there.  Every  now  and  then,  too,  he  would  fling  his 
arms  wide  above  his  head,  and  let  them  fall  to  his  sides 
with  a  sigh  of  deep  satisfaction.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  been  cramped,  and  was  now  rejoicing  in  his  freedom. 
He  was  doing  just  what  Felisi  had  seen  her  brother  do — 
the  one  who  stole  the  canoe — when  he  came  out  of 
Levuka  gaol  into  the  sunlight.  Her  heart  went  out  to 
the  tall  man  with  thin  legs  and  big  feet. 

And  the  other?  Undoubtedly  he  was  mad.  He 
trotted  this  way  and  that  in  the  hot  sand,  until  his  pink 
face  turned  to  red  and  then  to  purple.  He  was  trying 
to  make  the  natives  hurry,  which,  of  course,  was  not 
only  impossible,  but  ridiculous.  Were  there  not  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year,  each  one  of 
which  was  equally  suitable  for  unpacking  green  bundles? 
Nevertheless,  he  continued  to  hurry  himself,  and  to 
such  purpose  that,  before  the  sun  had  sunk  into  the  sea, 
a  green  village  had  sprung  into  being  on  the  edge  of  the 
beach  under  the  palms — nothing  less.  It  appeared 
that  each  bundle  contained  a  house,  or  something  ap- 
pertaining to  a  house,  and  now  it  was  all  in  place. 

The  miracle-worker,  mopping  his  solar  topee  as  he 


4  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

went,  crossed  the  beach  to  his  companion,  who  was 
sitting  dabbling  his  large  feet  in  a  rock  pool. 

"All  is  now  ready,  Sir  John,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  good!"  answered  the  tall  man,  leaning  forward 
and  picking  up  a  soldier  crab  between  finger  and  thumb. 

"I  think  you  will  find  everything  in  order,  Sir  John," 
the  other  continued,  standing  in  the  sand  with  his  fat 
calves  pressed  together,  so  that  one  bulged  over  the 
other.  "The  sparklets  are — 

"You  have  shown  Mandri  where  everything  is?"  in- 
terrupted the  other,  watching  the  soldier  crab's  in- 
effectual little  pincer  waving  in  the  air. 

"He  has  arranged  his  own  necessities  himself,  Sir 
John.  The  rest  is  as  you  ordered." 

"Then  that  will  do,  thank  you,  Saunders." 

"Next  Wednesday,  I  think  you  said,  Sir  John?" 

"Yes,  yes."  The  tall  man  seemed  irritable.  He 
was  obviously  more  interested  in  the  soldier  crab  than 
his  companion  of  the  bulging  calves.  "  Once  a  week  will 
be  enough.  What's  to-day?" 

"Tuesday,  the  eighteenth  of  February,  Sir  John,"  the 
other  answered,  with  extraordinary  promptitude. 

"Then  Wednesday.  Yes,  each  Wednesday  will  do 
admirably.  And  don't  forget  the  spirits." 

The  tall  man  carefully  replaced  the  soldier  crab  in 
the  rock  pool  and  stood  up.  The  other  backed  away 
slightly. 

"I  thought  I  might  mention,  Sir  John,  that  there  will 
be  green  vegetables.  I  see  a  native  girl  in  a  small 
garden  on  the  edge  of  the  beach  behind  us.  No 
doubt " 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     5 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  muttered  the  tall  man, 
strolling  across  the  beach  toward  the  launch,  with  the 
other  following.  "Mandri  will  see  to  all  that.  Good 
afternoon,  Saunders ! " 

In  a  dignified  but  forceful  way  he  herded  the  pink 
man  and  the  natives  into  the  launch,  which  was  soon  a 
glittering  speck  against  the  blue.  For  a  while  he  stood 
with  his  thin  legs  apart  and  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
watching  it  go.  Then  he,  too,  went  mad,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  Felisi.  He  raised  both  skinny  arms  to  the 
sunset,  as  though  in  worship,  dropped  them  suddenly, 
and,  turning,  dashed  along  the  beach  through  the  ripple 
of  a  wave,  sending  the  water  flying  in  all  directions, 
including  over  himself.  Then  he  rolled  in  the  sand 
like  a  dog,  and  rose,  plastered  and  breathless  and 
laughing. 

"That's  better,"  he  bellowed,  "much  better!  Ma- 
a-ndri!" 

A  gray-haired  Tongan  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
the  smallest  green  house. 

"I  want  grilled  saqa  for  dinner,"  shouted  the  tall 
man,  "and  grated  cocoanut  and  pineapple-fool!" 

The  Tongan  made  a  tama  (obeisance)  and  withdrew. 

Presently  he  came  out  and  crossed  the  beach  to  Felisi. 

"The  Turaga  (gentleman)  wishes  for  saqa,"  he  said. 
"Where  are  the  fish-traps?" 

Felisi  rose  from  her  heels  as  though  propelled  by  some 
evenly  working  mechanism  and  led  the  way  round 
the  rocks  at  the  end  of  the  beach. 

"Hi!     Where  are  you  going?"  bawled  the  tall  man. 

"To  get  the  saqa,  saka  (sir)." 


6  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Good!  I'm  coming."  The  tall  man  walked  be- 
hind, whistling. 

Felisi,  in  her  trim  white  sulu  (kilt),  swung  on  in 
front,  with  her  natural  grace  of  movement  slightly 
enhanced  by  the  knowledge  that  she  was  being  noticed. 
At  the  fish-trap — a  simple  affair  of  volcanic  rock  boul- 
ders built  in  a  square,  so  that,  when  the  tide  receded, 
fish  were  left  behind — she  picked  up  a  spear  from  the 
rocks  and  waded  waist-deep,  holding  it  aloft.  The  tall 
man  watched  her,  entranced,  and  Felisi  knew  it,  and 
took  care  that  the  poise  of  her  arms  and  head  and  shoul- 
ders were  all  that  could  be  desired.  Had  she  not  the 
reputation  of  "a  darling"  to  live  up  to? 

Suddenly  the  spear  flashed  from  her  hand,  there  was 
a  splash,  a  swirling  of  waters,  and  the  long  bamboo 
shaft  sped  round  and  round  the  trap,  with  Felisi  splash- 
ing after  it.  She  caught  it  and  raised  it  aloft,  with  a 
two-foot  saqa  on  its  barbs  flashing  green  in  the  waning 
light. 

"Splendid!"  roared  the  tall  man.  "I  say " 

The  rest  of  whatever  he  was  going  to  say  was  drowned 
by  the  splash  that  he  made  as  he  jumped  down  into 
the  trap  and  waded  over  to  Felisi. 

"I  must  have  a  try,"  he  mumbled  excitedly,  taking 
the  spear  from  Felisi.  "Vinaka  (thank  you),  little 
girl."  And  he  was  off,  stalking  round  the  trap  as 
though  walking  barefoot  on  broken  glass.  What  fol- 
lowed caused  Felisi  to  put  her  hand  to  her  mouth  and 
snatch  it  away  whenever  the  tall  man  turned  her  way. 
One  is  not  supposed  to  laugh  at  a  white  chief  but,  oh, 
it  was  funny !  He  kept  jabbing  at  the  water  as  though 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES      7 

prodding  a  snake.  Or  he  would  throw  the  spear  with 
tremendous  force,  so  that  it  would  stick  into  the  sand. 
Then  he  would  flounder  after  it  and  hold  it  up,  with  a 
piece  of  seaweed  on  the  end  and  a  look  of  pained  sur- 
prise on  his  gaunt  face  that  sent  Felisi  into  silent  hys- 
terics. But  best  of  all  was  when  he  caught  his  toe  on  a 
rock.  Then  he  dropped  the  spear  and  sank  into  the 
water,  hugging  his  foot  and  saying  things  that  Felisi  did 
not  quite  understand,  but  which  she  seemed  to  remem- 
ber having  heard  in  Levuka. 

She  went  to  him,  but  he  brushed  her  aside  and  con- 
tinued his  stalking.  "I'm  going  to  do  it.  I'm  going  to 
do  it,"  he  kept  muttering,  as  he  wallowed  round  the  trap. 
The  determination  of  the  man!  "It's  the  reflection," 
he  told  himself  aloud,  "of  course,  it's  the  reflection. 

When  you  think  a  fish  is  there,  it  isn't.  It's Let  me 

see,  where's  the  light!  Ah,  yes,  to  the  left — no,  the 
right — er — or " 

The  spear  left  his  hand.  The  shaft  was  racing  round 
the  trap.  The  tall  man  stood  staring  after  it,  spell- 
bound. But  only  for  a  moment;  the  next  he  was  after 
it,  yelping  like  a  dog  after  a  rat. 

Felisi  could  contain  herself  no  longer — she  was  after 
it,  too.  The  white  chief's  first  saqa!  It  must  be  caught 
and,  unless  he  knew  the  way,  he  might  flounder  round 
the  trap  until  he  dropped. 

"Go  away — vamose!  Savvy?"  he  bellowed  savagely 
as  she  came  near  him.  He  floundered  on  like  a  gram- 
pus, but  always  the  shaft  of  the  spear  avoided  his 
snatching  fingers.  Then  Felisi  dived.  She  held  the 
saqa  just  long  enough  under  water  for  the  tall  man  to 


8  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

catch  the  spear  shaft  on  the  surface,  then  she  stood  be- 
fore him,  dripping  and  triumphant  as  he. 

"You  catch  him,  Sir  Johnnie!"  she  panted,  in  an  ac- 
cess of  enthusiasm. 

The  tall  man  took  an  abrupt  seat  in  the  water,  and  re- 
mained there  gasping.  His  head  was  just  clear  of  the 
surface,  and  his  mouth  opened  and  shut  precisely  like 
the  saga's. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  panted  at  last.  Then:  "What 
did  you  say?" 

"I  say  you  catch  him,"  repeated  Felisi  diffidently. 

The  tall  man  seemed  to  have  thoroughly  noticed  her 
for  the  first  time. 

"But  what  else?     You  said  something  else." 

"I  say  Sir  Johnnie,"  said  Felisi,  giggling. 

The  tall  man  flung  back  his  head,  so  that  it  was  half 
submerged,  and  laughed.  By  the  Great  Spirit,  what  a 
laugh  he  had ! 

"Oh,  that's  great!"  he  roared,  then  looked  at  Felisi 
again.  He  had  the  kindest  gray  eyes  imaginable. 
"But  how  did  you  come  to  know  my  name?" 

"I  hear  'em  talk  him  ongo  (over  there),"  Felisi  ex- 
plained, pointing  toward  the  beach . 

"  Sirjohnnie ! "  repeated  the  tall  man,  and  burst  into 
another  hurricane  of  laughter. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  when  it  had  subsided 
into  occasional  chuckles. 

"Felisi,"  answered  that  individual,  leaning  grace- 
fully on  the  spear. 

"And  you  talk  English?" 

"Some."     Felisi  had  learnt  this  remarkably  useful 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     9 

word  from  a  woman  who  she  had  afterward  heard 
came  from  Americania,  wherever  that  might  be. 

Sirjohnnie  laughed  again  and  scrambled  to  his  feet. 

"Some,  eh?"  he  repeated,  as  though  it  were  a  great 
joke.  "Well,  Felisi,  you've  given  me  the  best  after- 
noon's sport  I've  had  in  years."  He  felt  in  his  soaking 
duck  trousers  pocket  and  brought  out  a  handful  of 
silver.  "What's  your  saqa  worth?" 

Felisi  shook  her  head. 

"  You  catch  him,  Sirjohnnie,"  she  insisted. 

Sirjohnnie  regarded  her  quizzically  for  a  moment, 
then  smiled  and  returned  the  money  to  his  pocket. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "you  must  come  and  help  me 
eat  it,  that's  all." 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  Felisi  more.  She  was 
longing,  with  a  child's  curiosity,  to  see  the  interior  of  the 
green  houses.  Moreover,  she  felt  toward  Sirjohnnie  as 
she  had  never  felt  toward  a  Turaga  in  her  life.  What 
was  he  but  a  great  child?  She,  Felisi,  had  taught  him 
how  to  spear  saqa.  She  could  teach  him  many  things. 
Principally  owing  to  Sir  Johnnie's  ludicrous  performance 
of  the  afternoon,  Felisi  took  a  motherly  as  well  as  a 
childlike  interest  in  him.  They  are  not  incompatible. 

They  waded  ashore  together,-  the  saqa  suspended  by 
the  gills  from  the  spear  held  between  them.  The 
Tongan  squatted  on  the  rocks,  smoking  a  saluka,  as  he 
had  squatted  and  smoked  since  the  beginning  of  the 
performance.  If  a  Turaga  chose  to  catch  his  own  din- 
ner in  the  presence  of  his  servant  and  a  native  girl,  who 
was  he,  Mandri,  to  interfere?  There  was  never  any 
telling  what  they  might  do. 


10  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

At  the  door  of  the  largest  of  the  green  houses  the 
party  broke  up.  Sirjohnnie,  who  seemed  to  have  gone 
into  a  trance — he  had  a  knack  of  doing  this,  Felisi 
noticed — turned  aside  and  disappeared  into  the  dim 
interior.  Felisi  followed  Mandri  to  the  kitchen,  and 
squatted  outside,  as  a  woman  should.  The  Tongan 
naturally  treated  her  as  non-existent.  Nevertheless,  a 
scullery  maid  has  her  uses,  and  he  allowed  Felisi  to  cook 
the  saqa,  wrapped  in  banana  leaf,  Island  fashion.  For 
one  thing,  he  knew  that  it  would  be  cooked  better  that 
way  than  in  the  Turaga's  elaborate  stove,  and,  for 
another,  that  it  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  sitting  in 
the  doorway  and  smoking  one  of  Sirjohnnie's  superla- 
tive cigars.  The  only  fly  in  the  ointment  was  that  the 
pest  spoke  English  with  uncanny  glibness. 

"Mandri,"  said  Sirjohnnie,  an  hour  later — he  had 
begun  dinner  with  a  book  propped  against  the  lamp,  but 
in  the  end  the  dinner  claimed  most  of  his  attention — 
"I  must  congratulate  you  on  the  saqa.  Perhaps  it's 
because  I  caught  it  myself,  but  it  certainly  tastes  re- 
markably good." 

"Eo,  saka,"  grunted  Mandri,  with  a  self-satisfied 
smile. 

"The  new  stove  is  a  success,  then?" 

"The  new  stove  is  a  success,  saka."  Mandri  shuf- 
fled his  horny  feet  on  the  matting  of  the  floor. 

"By  the  way" — Sirjohnnie  was  leaning  back,  smok- 
ing one  of  the  excellent  cigars — "where  is  that  little 
native  girl — Felisi,  that's  it?"  He  actually  remem- 
bered the  name,  Mandri  noticed. 

"She  is  outside,  saka." 


SIR  JOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     11 

"Outside?     Then  send  her  in,  will  you?" 

"The  Turaga  wishes  to  see  you,"  Mandri  told  Felisi, 
and  gave  her  a  warning  scowl  as  she  slipped  past  him 
into  the  living  room. 

She  sank  on  to  the  mats  inside  the  doorway.  From 
somewhere  she  had  secured  a  red  hibiscus  blossom,  and 
it  now  flamed  against  her  blue-black  hair. 

"Well,  Felisi,"  said  Sirjohnnie,  tilting  back  his  camp 
chair,  "the  saqa  was  a  huge  success." 

"Sucthess,"  lisped  Felisi. 

"Yes.     "What  do  you  think  of  our  new  stove?" 

Much  clearing  of  the  throat  and  clashing  of  pans 
proceeded  from  the  kitchen. 

Felisi  allowed  an  agonized  pause  to  ensue.  Mandri 
needed  a  lesson. 

"Stove — him  all  right,"  she  conceded  at  last.  "By 
an'  by  plenty  more  saqa  ?  " 

Sirjohnnie  shook  his  head.     "Not  for  me,  I'm  afraid. 
By  an'  by  plenty  work." 
-   "Work?" 

"  Yes.  I've  got  so  much  work  to  do,  and  so  little  time 
to  do  it  in,  that  it  almost  frightens  me." 

Felisi  found  herself  on  the  verge  of  solving  a  problem 
that  had  always  puzzled  her. 

"Plenty  work,  plenty  time?"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,  for  you  lucky  people,"  sighed  Sirjohnnie. 

"Why  no  plenty  time  for-you -lucky-people?"  mim- 
icked Felisi. 

"We  have  other  things  that  must  be  done.  We're 
not  lucky.  We  can't  do  what  we  want  to  do  always, 
you  know." 


12  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Why?" 

Sirjohnnie  chuckled,  then  frowned. 

"Oh,  just  because." 

"Jus'  becos." 

"Yes.  I  admit  it's  not  much  of  a  reason,  Felisi, 

but "  He  smiled  whimsically  and  crossed  one  thin 

leg  over  the  other.  "We've  gone  past  ourselves  'over 
there' — that's  about  the  truth  of  the  matter."  He  was 
speaking  more  to  himself  than  Felisi.  "We  want  to 
progress." 

"Pro-gress,"  repeated  Felisi  solemnly. 

"Yes,  go  ahead — improve,  know  more  and  live 
more  comfortably."  Suddenly  Sirjohnnie  laughed. 
"Anyway,  we  call  it  progress.  So  we  make  law, 
plenty  law — law  written  down  for  us  by  other  people, 
and  law  we  make  for  ourselves — and  sometimes  we 
obey  it,  because  we  think  that  is  the  way  to  progress, 
and  sometimes  we  disobey  it  so  that  we  can  get  ahead 
of  the  other  fellah.  That's  our  life.  Funny,  Felisi, 
isn't  it?" 

Felisi  admitted  that  it  was. 

"Law,"  she  echoed.  "Law  make  no  plenty  by  an* 
by?" 

Sirjohnnie  changed  the  position  of  his  legs. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  does  rather  limit  one's  time.  It 
is  made  to  make  us  do  things  that  we  don't  want  to. 
And  even  you  have  your  law,  Felisi,"  he  added  quickly. 
"You  know  that  you  mustn't  steal " 

"A  canoe,"  supplied  Felisi. 

"Yes,  a  canoe  or  anything.  That  you  must  work 
in  the  taro  patch,  and — marry  some  day." 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     13 

He  did  not  add  that  these  were  natural  laws,  although 
it  occurred  to  him  that  they  were. 

"Law  for  no  plenty  by  an'  by,  no  good,"  pronounced 
Felisi  firmly. 

Sir  Johnnie  laughed. 

"Perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said,  and  fell  idly  to 
turning  the  pages  of  the  book  that  had  been  propped 
against  the  lamp  during  dinner. 

"Look  here,  you're  something  of  an  ichthyologist, 
Felisi,"  he  said  suddenly.  "Do  you  recognize  any  of 
these  fellahs?" 

She  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant,  clucking  with  won- 
der at  the  brightly  coloured  picture  of  fish — fish  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes  and  colours.  They  hung  there  on  the 
white  paper  as  though  in  some  clear  pool. 

Suddenly  a  brown  finger  descended  on  the  page. 

"jEo,"  she  cried  excitedly,  "him,  an'  him,  an'  him!" 

"A  compliment  for  the  lithographer,"  muttered 
Sirjohnnie,  smiling.  Wilkinson  and  Pratt  are  good 
people." 

"An*  him,  an'  him,"  continued  Felisi.  "Him  no 
good,"  she  added  with  a  pout,  indicating  a  rather  washy 
representation  of  sea  and  coral  at  the  foot  of  the  page. 

Sirjohnnie  laughed. 

"You're  right,"  he  said;  "that  part  of  it  is  very,  very 
poor.  But,  you  see,  the  people  who  made  these  pic- 
tures have  never  been  here.  They  don't  know,  poor 
devils." 

"Poor  devils,"  repeated  Felisi,  with  faithful  intona- 
tion. 

At  this  point  Mandri  entered  with  the  coffee.    Ap- 


14  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

parently  he  saw  nothing,  and  placed  the  cup  on  the 
camp-table  and  withdrew.  But  he  carried  into  the  kit- 
chen a  mental  picture  of  Sir  John  Truscott,  R.  Z.  S., 
leaning  over  a  lamp-lit  table,  his  grizzled  head  close 
to  a  cascade  of  blue-black  hair  relieved  by  a  flaming 
hibiscus  blossom. 

He  clucked  loudly  twice  and  helped  himself  from  the 
whisky  tantalus. 

But  the  next  day  Sir  Johnnie  was  a  changed  man.  He 
wore  nothing  but  a  sulu,  a  shirt,  and  pith  helmet.  He 
carried  an  extremely  fine-meshed  shrimp  net  and  a  tin 
creel  of  water,  and  wandered  from  rock  pool  to  rock 
pool  in  a  trance  that  effectually  excluded  Felisi.  She 
spoke  to  him  twice,  but  he  took  not  the  faintest  notice. 

He  would  kneel  over  a  pool  by  the  hour,  with  his 
shrimp  net  lying  on  the  bottom,  while  the  fish — some  of 
them  not  more  than  half  an  inch  long,  but  striped  or 
mottled  with  every  imaginable  colour  and  shade  of 
colour — hovered  in  the  crystal-clear  water  like  butter- 
flies suspended  on  invisible  wire,  or  darted  in  and  out 
of  their  homes  in  the  coral. 

Each  pool  was  a  marine  garden,  great  or  small,  but 
complete  with  swaying  trees  of  tinted  weed,  coral 
bridges,  and  paths  of  sand,  and  Sirjohnnie's  soul  lived 
in  them,  that  was  plain.  Then  would  come  an  upward 
jerk  of  the  net,  a  hasty  examination  of  its  contents, 
and  a  slip-slop  as  the  fish  were  dropped  into  the  creel 
of  water. 

This  went  on  all  day,  and  Felisi  found  it  boring.  She 
had  ideas  of  her  own  on  the  subject,  and  presently 
proceeded  to  put  them  into  execution.  Some  time  in 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     15 

the  afternoon — Sirjohnnie  had  had  no  lunch,  in  spite  of 
Mandri's  importunities — she  went  to  the  bush  and 
returned  to  one  of  the  pools  with  an  armful  of  green 
vine.  This  she  tossed  into  the  water  and  squatted 
back  on  the  sand.  Presently  a  fish  appeared,  then 
another  and  another,  until  the  pool  was  alive  with 
scintillating  colour;  but  there  was  no  movement — 
every  fish  in  that  pool,  from  the  remotest  cranny  of 
coral,  floated  inert  close  to  the  surface. 

Sirjohnnie,  when  at  last  Felisi  succeeded  in  enticing 
him  away  from  the  net  for  an  inspection,  was  overcome. 
He  uttered  little  yelps  of  excitement  as  he  pounced  on 
fish  that  he  knew  to  be  rare  specimens,  and  some  that  he 
had  never  seen  before. 

"But  this  is  wonderful!"  he  cried.  "Some  more  of 
that  vine,  Felisi,  quick!" 

Felisi  obeyed  instructions  in  every  respect  except 
speed.  Sirjohnnie  was  capering  round  the  pool  like  a 
madman  when  she  returned. 

"This  is  nothing  short  of  a  discovery,"  he  told  her,, 
in  a  shaking  voice.  "What  is  it,  Felisi?  But  of  course, 
you  don't  know."  He  clucked  impatiently. 

And  that  was  where  he  was  wrong,  Felisi  told  herself, 
squatting  in  the  sand,  triumphant.  She  knew — the 
whole  of  Luana  knew — that  it  was  a  vine  that  grew  in 
the  bush,  and  when  flung  into  a  pool,  stupefied  fish. 
What  more  did  any  one  want  to  know?  The  ignorance 
of  these  white  chiefs  was  beyond  belief. 

Sirjohnnje  was  breaking  the  vine  into  lengths 
now,  and  carefully  wrapping  them  in  a  square  of  oiled 
silk. 


16  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Crothers  must  see  this,"  he  muttered  aloud,  even 
as  he  had  muttered  in  the  fish- trap. 

The  evening  was  undoubtedly  the  most  pleasant 
time  for  Felisi.  Mandri  had  come  to  regard  her  as  a 
harmless,  and  occasionally  useful,  adjunct  to  the  green 
houses;  and  Sirjohnnie,  when  he  was  not  in  a  trance, 
seemed  to  derive  considerable  amusement  from  talking 
with,  or  rather  at,  her  on  a  variety  of  subjects,  ranging 
from  ichthyology  to  theosophy.  Also,  and  what  was 
far  more  important,  he  had  discovered  that  the  girl  had 
extraordinarily  nimble  fingers.  As  she  had  threaded 
seeds  for  sale  on  Levuka  wharf,  so  she  mounted  and 
varnished  the  minutest  fish.  Some  were  delicately 
stuffed  with  preservative  cotton-wool  and  packed  care- 
fully in  labelled  departments  of  tin-lined  chests.  Others 
were  preserved  in  jars  of  spirit.  But  whatever  was  done 
with  them,  Sirjohnnie  knew  that  he  was  on  the  way  to 
making  the  finest  collection  of  tropical  fish  in  existence. 

Why  the  girl  did  all  this,  he  never  stopped  to  ask  him- 
self. He  was  too  busy.  He  had  come  to  accept  her  as 
part  of  the  furniture  of  the  green  houses — a  very  es- 
sential part.  If  he  had  ever  guessed  the  true  reason,  he 
would  have  received  the  shock  of  his  life. 

On  one  Wednesday  visitation  of  the  launch,  the  pink 
man  brought  Sirjohnnie  a  letter.  It  lay  on  the  table 
until  evening,  unopened,  and  when  at  last  he  had  read 
it,  he  sat  staring  straight  before  him  for  so  long  that 
Felisi  thought  the  trance  had  taken  hold  of  him  for 
good.  But  there  was  trouble  in  his  eyes,  and  there  was 
never  that  when  he  was  in  a  trance.  Felisi  knew  the 
cause  by  instinct. 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     17 

*'  You  go  ango"  (over  there)  she  said,  nodding  her  head 
seaward. 

Sirjohnnie  looked  down  at  her  with  unseeing  eyes. 
Then  suddenly  he  laughed. 

"How  the  mischief  did  you  know  that?"  he  said. 

Felisi  wagged  her  head  sagely. 

"Law?"  she  suggested  presently. 

Again  Sirjohnnie  laughed,  a  short  laugh  this  time,  and 
looked  at  her  with  his  whimsical  smile  puckering  the 
corners  of  his  eyes. 

"I  believe  you  know  a  lot  more  than  you  pretend, 
Felisi,"  he  said.  "  You're  right.  It's  a  law  that  takes 
me  away  from  Luana.  One  of  our  self-imposed  laws, 
but  an  uncommonly  strict  one."  He  sighed.  "What 
a  time  I've  had!"  And  again,  presently:  "Was  there 
ever  such  a  time?" 

There  was  no  need  for  him  to  say  any  more.  "Laws 
are  made  to  make  us  do  things  that  we  don't  want  to." 
Felisi  had  been  at  some  pains  to  understand  those 
words,  but  their  meaning  was  quite  clear  to  her  now. 
Sirjohnnie  did  not  want  to  leave  Luana!  She  hugged 
her  feet  closer  under  her  small  body,  and  rearranged 
the  hibiscus  blossom  in  her  hair.  _ 

That  evening,  when  work  was  done,  she  danced  a 
meke  for  him.  It  was  the  history  of  a  great  war  with 
Tonga,  done  in  pose  and  gesture  to  a  droned  accompani- 
ment, and  Sirjohnnie  smoked  and  watched  with  evident 
pleasure. 

'*  Vinaka  (very  good) !"  he  cried,  when  she  had  done. 
"I  wonder  how  you  would  take  at — at  the  Hippodrome, 
Felisi?"  he  suggested,  and  fell  silent  again,  with  the 


18  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

same  troubled  look  in  his  eyes.  So  Felisi  danced  him 
the  love-story  of  the  two  wood-pigeons. 

Then  came  the  evening  of  the  Emerald  Drop.  Felisi 
half  suspected  it  from  the  utter  stillness  and  stifling  heat. 
The  glow  on  the  western  horizon — a  green  glow  with 
angry  slashes  of  black  cloud  across  it — increased  her 
suspicions.  And  as  the  sun  sank,  blood  red,  into  the 
sea — just  as  its  upper  edge  came  level  with  the  horizon 
—an  emerald  green  ball  of  light  shone  for  a  moment  and 
was  gone. 

Sirjohnnie  was  away  up  the  coast,  fishing  by  torch- 
light. Mandri  was  in  the  kitchen,  quietly  drunk  and 
smoking  one  of  Sirjohnnie's  cigars.  Felisi  pondered 
what  she  should  do.  There  might  be  time,  and 
there  might  be  none.  It  might  strike  the  beach  of  the 
green  houses,  and  it  might  not.  She  rose  without 
haste. 

The  task  that  she  had  set  herself  took,  perhaps,  an 
hour.  Then  she  squatted  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  over- 
looking the  beach  and  waited  as  only  an  Islander  can 
wait. 

Darkness  closed  down,  and  such  darkness !  One  half 
of  the  sky  was  star-pricked,  the  other  black  and  sub- 
stantial as  a  pall.  And  the  pall  slowly  encroached  on 
the  stars.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  crept.  There  was  a 
puff  of  wind,  hot  as  the  night,  then  another.  Felisi 
held  her  breath. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  there  was  a  mighty  roar- 
ing; the  whole  world  seemed  full  of  it,  trembling  with 
it.  The  boom  of  the  surf  on  the  reef,  changing  to 
thunder,  joined  the  demoniac  chorus.  Then  the  hur- 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     19 

ricane  burst  on  Luana  with  the  force  of  a  giant  sledge- 
hammer. 

Something  flew  at  Felisi  out  of  the  turmoil  and  wrap- 
ped itself  about  her  as  she  clung  to  a  rock.  It  was  one 
of  the  green  houses  from  the  beach  a  hundred  feet  below. 
She  tore  it  from  her,  and  it  whirled  off  into  the  night. 
Palms  were  snapping  like  muffled  pistol-shots,  and 
crashing  to  ground  with  the  dull  thud  of  a  falling  body. 
The  very  turf  was  ripped  from  the  earth  and  rolled  into 
balls. 

Yet  it  was  not  a  really  bad  hurricane.  It  lasted  half 
an  hour  at  most,  and  cut  a  half-mile  swathe  through 
Luana  as  cleanly  as  a  mower  cuts  wheat.  Felisi  lis- 
tened to  it  charging  madly  into  the  distance,  then  leapt 
to  her  feet  and  ran  along  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

The  pall  had  passed  on,  and  the  stars  shone  again. 
The  night  was  cooler  now,  and  the  wind  came  only  in 
gusts.  Felisi  ran.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  hurried 
in  her  life.  She  called,  and  kept  calling:  "Sirjohnnie! 
Sirjohnnie ! "  And  presently  there  was  an  answer.  Sir- 
Johnnie  was  snugly  ensconced  with  his  back  to  a  rock, 
the  tin  creel  carefully  guarded  in  his  lap. 

Felisi  flung  herself  on  the  ground  beside  him  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  arms. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  murmured  Sirjohnnie,  putting  his 
hand  on  her  hair.  "Frightened,  eh? " 

Felisi  had  been  frightened,  but  not  in  the  way  Sir- 
johjuue  thought. 

"Never  mind;  it's  all  over  now,"  he  went  on  cheer- 
fully. "Whew!  Come  along — let's  go  back." 

It  was  Sirjohnnie's  first  hurricane,  that  was  clear. 


20  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Go  back!  To  what?  Felisi  led  the  way  along  the  edge 
of  the  cliff. 

"Gad!"  said  Sirjohnnie,  looking  over  at  the  starlit 
water  thrashing  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  "It's  driven  the 
sea  clean  over  the  beach.  I  wonder " 

His  voice  trailed  away,  and  he  hurried  on  in  silence. 

At  the  edge  of  the  cove  they  stopped  and  stood  side 
by  side,  looking  down  on  where  the  beach  had  been. 
There  was  none.  The  green  village  had  been  wiped 
from  the  face  of  Luana  as  cleanly  as  a  drawing 
from  a  slate.  The  beach  was  now  a  bay  of  foaming 
water. 

Sirjohnnie  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  still  with 
the  tin  creel  clasped  in  his  hands,  and  stared  stonily 
before  him. 

"Village,  him  go  pouf !"  Felisi  explained,  squatting 
at  his  side.  t 

"Village?  What  do  I  care  about  a  village?"  he 
muttered,  after  a  pause. 

"Fish,  him  all  right,"  said  Felisi,  looking  anxiously 
into  his  face.  She  hated  to  see  that  troubled  look  in 
his  eyes. 

Sirjohnnie  did  not  hear.  He  still  sat  staring  before 
him. 

"And  only  a  week  more!"  came  from  him  in  a  sort  of 
groan. 

"Fish,  him  all  right,"  repeated  Felisi  eagerly,  search- 
ing for  an  answering  light  in  his  face. 

Sirjohnnie  turned  his  head  and  laughed  in  her  face, 
a  bitter,  mirthless  laugh. 

"Tish,  him  all  right,"  he  mimicked,  with  ironic  cheer- 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     21 

fulness.  "They're  back  where  they  belong  now,  aren't 
they,  Felisi?" 

It  was  some  time  before  Sirjohnnie  suffered  himself  to 
be  led  farther  along  the  cliff.  Never  had  Felisi  found 
him  so  hard  of  understanding.  Presently,  however,  he 
stood  looking  down  on  a  hole  in  the  volcanic  rock,  where 
were  neatly  packed  the  tin-lined  cases  and  the  glass 
jars — every  one  of  them — and  unscathed. 

He  stared  at  them  in  dumb  wonderment  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  turned  to  Felisi,  who  stood  looking  up  into 
his  face  with  anxious  inquiry. 

"Felisi,"  he  said  gravely,  "you're  a  wonder,  child!" 
He  lifted  her  off  her  feet  and  hugged  her. 

The  next  day  the  beach  of  Luana  reappeared.  Save 
for  the  fallen  palms,  torn  earth,  and  battered  reed 
brakes,  it  was  as  it  had  been  before  the  advent  of  the 
green  houses. 

"It  just  didn't  like  me,  that's  all,"  Sirjohnnie  told 
Felisi,  with  one  of  his  old-time  laughs.  "But  I'm  still 
here."  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  Pacific. 

About  noon  the  launch  arrived,  and  there  was  unusual 
commotion  in  the  landing.  The  pink  man  seemed 
exercised,  and  the  cause  of  it  all  was  soon  apparent  when 
a  stalwart  native  waded  ashore,  bearing  very  gingerly 
the  slight  form  of  a  woman.  She  wore  the  same  stream- 
ing coloured  veil  and  carried  the  same  kind  of  sunshade 
as  those  on  the  wharf  at  Levuka. 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  Sirjohnnie,  and  hurried  across 
the  beach.  He  was  hatless,  unshaven,  and  his 
ducks  were  bespattered  with  the  good  red  earth  of 
Luana. 


22  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"My  dear  John,"  wailed  the  woman,  when  she  had 
been  set  on  her  feet,  "what  are  you  doing?  " 

Sirjohnnie  proceeded  to  explain,  with  many  gestures 
and  pointings  in  the  direction  of  where  the  green  houses 
had  stood. 

Presently  another  white  man  joined  them. 

"Crothers,"  bellowed  Sirjohnnie,  "I've  got  some- 
thing for  you ! " 

"We  arrived  last  Tuesday,"  the  woman  continued 
wearily.  "Another  week  of  Levuka  is  simply  impos- 
sible." 

"But  you  gave  me  until  the  twentieth,"  protested 
Sirjohnnie.  "This  place  is  a  perfect  Mecca.  I've  got 
every  species — 

"And  this  is  the  twenty-fifth,"  sighed  the  woman. 

"  Good  gracious,  no,  is  it?  Half  a  minute,  Crothers ! " 
Sirjohnnie  was  looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
visitors  in  the  same  nervous  way  that  he  had  speared 
fish  in  the  trap. 

"Look  here,  my  dear : 

"What  I  came  to  find  out  definitely,"  proceeded  the 
inexorable  woman,  "was  if  you  are  coming  home  on  the 
Moultan  in  time  for  the  season,  or  if  you  intend  to  stay 
here  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

Felisi,  lying  prone  in  the  sand,  buried  her  face  in  her 
hair.  Through  it  she  heard  Sirjohnnie's  answer. 

"Why,  of  course,  yes — that  is — yes.  Just  one  mo- 
ment, my  dear.  Crothers!" 

Still  through  her  hair  Felisi  saw  him  lead  the  white 
man  to  a  tiny  pool,  unwrap  the  square  of  oiled  silk,  and 
toss  in  a  piece  of  vine.  She  heard  the  distant  murmur 


SIRJOHNNIE  OF  THE  GREEN  HOUSES     23 

of  Sirjohnnie's  voice  discoursing  gleefully  on  the  result, 
and  saw  the  white  man  examining  the  vine  through  a 
glass.  The  natives  and  the  pink  man  were  already 
carrying  the  tin-lined  cases  and  the  jars  down  from  the 
cliff  to  the  launch.  Then  she  became  aware  that  the 
woman  had  taken  a  seat  on  a  rock,  and  was  beckoning 
to  her. 

Felisi  went  and  squatted  in  the  sand  before  her.  She 
very  much  wanted  to  see  the  woman  at  close  quarters. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "do  you  speak 
any  English?" 

Felisi  shook  her  head. 

The  woman  was  extraordinarily  beautiful.  Her  skin 
was  like  milk,  and  her  hair  was  the  colour  of  gold.  Could 
anything  be  more  alluring?  Yet  Sir  Johnnie  did  not 
want  to  leave  Luana!  Felisi  knew  it  as  surely  as  that 
the  sun  shone,  and  Lady  Truscott  wondered  what  made 
the  child  smile. 

To  Felisi  this  woman  represented  "law" — "the  law 
that  makes  people  do  what  they  don't  want  to."  Look- 
ing into  the  woman's  face,  she  recalled  to  mind  a  fish — 
a  fish  which  may  be  handled  in  a  certain  way,  but  which, 
if  applied  roughly  to  human  flesh,  caused  the  victim  to 
die  in  agony  within  an  hour.  What  if  she  flung  such  a 
fish  in  the  face  of  this  "law"  and  freed  Sirjohnnie  for 
ever? 

This  was  what  Felisi  was  thinking  as  she  squatted 
in  the  sand  before  Lady  Truscott.  So  perhaps  it  was 
as  well  that  at  that  moment  Sirjohnnie  returned  to 
escort  her  to  the  launch,  thus  sparing  to  Society  a 
charming  hostess  and  the  much-tried  wife  of  a  truly 


24  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

exasperating  man.  Sir  Johnnie  obeyed  his  "law"  with 
commendable  fortitude.  He  forgot  to  say  good-bye  to 
Felisi,  and  was  borne  out  to  the  launch,  expostulating 
wildly  with  a  native  who  had  inadvertently  stepped  on 
one  of  the  tin-lined  cases.  But  Felisi  has  never  forgot- 
ten him. 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME 

FELISI  was  hoeing  in  the  family  taro  patch,  when 
the  white  man  crawled  out  of  the  green  cavern  of 
the  bush  on  to  the  beach  at  Luana. 
There  was  blood  on  his  face,  his  ducks  were  tattered 
and  besmeared,  and  his  left  hand  trailed  lifelessly  in  the 
sand  at  his  side.     For  a  moment  he  stared  along  the 
stretch  of  glistening  beach,  then  quite  suddenly  he  col- 
lapsed in  a  little  heap  and  lay  still. 

Now,  the  way  of  the  white  man  is  beyond  belief. 
Felisi,  who  for  many  months  had  lived  among  him  and 
his  women,  while  selling  imitation  pink  coral  on  the 
wharf  at  Levuka,  had  learned  this  great  truth  from  the 
bitter-sweet  experience  that  goes  to  make  up  life — even 
the  life  of  a  South  Sea  -Islander.  She  had  studied  the 
white  man  in  his  love  and  in  his  hate,  in  prosperity  and 
poverty,  peace  and  war,  and  at  the  end  of  an  eventful 
fourteen  years,  found  herself  no  nearer  discovering  the 
cause  of  his  ineffable  conceit,  colossal  ignorance,  monu- 
mental selfishness,  and  undoubted  greatness,  than  she 
had  been  as  a  tiny  bronze  infant,  playing  under  the 
breadfruit  trees  of  her  native  village. 

Wherefore  the  genus  white  man  claimed  a  good  deal 
of  Felisi 's  attention.  His  antics  interested  her  in  the 
same  way  that  her  own  life  and  habits  interested  some 
white  men,  though,  of  course,  it  never  occurred  to  the 

25 


26  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

latter  that  while  they  were  studying  "the  quaint  cus- 
toms of  a  quaint  people,"  they  themselves  were  being 
studied. 

For  instance,  when  the  dear  old  gentleman  on  the 
wharf  at  Levuka  had  patted  Felisi's  head  and  bought 
a  shilling's  worth  of  spurious  coral  for  the  sake  of 
studying  the  texture  of  her  hair,  he  had  not  the  faintest 
idea  that  the  soft  brown  eyes  that  wandered  langour- 
ously  over  his  superannuated  person  had  noted  that 
tufts  of  hair  grew  out  of  his  ears  in  a  most  comical 
manner,  that  his  false  teeth  moved  when  he  talked,  and 
that,  save  for  his  red  skin,  he  was  the  living  image  of  a 
doddering  lunatic  that  Felisi  knew  of  in  a  certain  village 
up  the  coast. 

But  there  it  was. 

And  here  was  another  case — a  white  man  lying  in  a 
limp  heap  on  the  beach  at  Luana.  He  was  quite  young, 
as  white  men  went,  and  when  Felisi  had  climbed  a  palm 
and  given  him  a  drink  from  a  green  cocoanut,  he  sat  up 
with  startling  abruptness. 

"Where  am  I?"  he  demanded. 

"Luana,"  Felisi  answered,  squatting  in  the  sand  and 
watching  with  interest  the  contortions  of  his  pink  face 
as  he  tried  to  lift  his  arm. 

"Luana!  Ouch!  Yes,  I  seem  to  have  been  on 
Luana  for  the  last  twenty  years.  But  what  part? 
Ouch!" 

"Senai  Keba,"  said  Felisi. 

The  white  man  whistled. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  muttered.  "The  north  end! 
I  must  have " 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  27 

But  Felisi  was  thinking  of  this  gentleman  Scott.  He 
was  so  universal,  and  always  so  great.  Who  was  he? 
She  determined  to  find  out  at  the  first  opportunity.  At 
the  moment  she  became  aware  that  the  white  man  was 
staring  at  her  with  suddenly  awakened  interest. 

"You  speak  English?"  he  exclaimed,  as  though  this 
accomplishment  of  Felisi's  had  just  reached  his  notice. 

"Some,"  she  answered  glibly,  using  the  word  she  had 
learned  on  the  wharf  at  Levuka,  and  always  found  so 
useful. 

"Thank  heaven!"  muttered  the  white  man.  "Have 
you  seen  any  one — a  white  man,  I  mean,  a  large  white 
man  who  limps  when  he  walks  and  carries  a  rifle  under 
his  arm?"  He  was  looking  over  his  shoulder  now,  and 
when  he  turned,  there  was  a  furtive  look  in  his  eyes. 

Felisi  shook  her  head. 

"Then  you  soon  will,"  snapped  the  white  man.  "Get 
me  out  of  here,  kid,  somewhere  safe,  and — and  you  shall 
have  all  I've  got.  He's  after  me — they're  all  after  me. 
I  haven't  slept  for  three  nights — the  bush — I  can't 
stand  it  any  more!"  He  moaned  and  pitched  face  for- 
ward into  the  sand. 

It  was  an  interesting  phenomenon  that,  when  the 
white  man  is  strong  and  well,  he  is  a  god  in  his  own 
estimation,  infinitely  removed  above  the  Polynesian 
race;  but  when  he  is  sick  or  frightened,  he  is  as  humble 
as  a  child.  It  was  as  a  child  that  Felisi  saw  this  white 
man.  She  knew  of  a  place,  a  perfectly  safe  place,  and 
when  she  had  brought  him  round  for  the  second  time, 
she  guided  him  to  it.  The  Bull  of  Senai  Keba  had  built 
a  new  look-out  on  the  edge  of  the  beach,  but  the  old  one 


28  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

still  remained  up  amongst  the  branches  of  a  giant  dilo 
tree.  It  was  a  big  business  getting  the  white  man  up 
the  broken  ladder  of  liana,  and  he  had  no  sooner 
crawled  on  to  the  platform  of  woven  branches  than  he 
collapsed  again. 

He  was  very  humble. 

Felisi  brought  him  green  cocoanuts  and  cooked  taro 
root,  and  while  he  ate,  in  great  hungry  mouthfuls,  she 
examined  his  arm.  There  was  a  clean  hole  on  one  side, 
just  above  the  elbow,  and  a  rather  larger  one  on  the 
other. 

"So  long  as  it  hasn't  got  the  bone  it's  nothing," 
mumbled  the  white  man,  with  his  mouth  full;  "but  I 
rather  fancy  it  has — ouch!"  He  leant  back  against 
the  dilo  trunk  while  Felisi  bound  the  wound  with  a  strip 
torn  from  her  sulu.  "  It  was  a  good  shot,"  he  continued 
to  mumble  reminiscently,  between  munches  at  the  taro 
root — "five  hundred  yards,  if  it  was  an  inch.  I  was 
crawling  up  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  the  only  bit 
of  open  country  we'd  seen  for — how  long  was  it? — four 
— five  days.  .  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence. 
He  was  asleep) — asleep  with  the  half -eaten  taro  root  in  a 
hand  lying  limply  palm  upward  on  the  platform. 

He  slept  for  a  day  and  a  night  and  nearly  half  a  day, 
and  when  he  awoke  he  ate  until  Felisi  thought  he  would 
burst.  He  seemed  to  swell  with  the  food,  just  like  a 
Buli  at  a  feast;  his  eyes  grew  brighter,  and  he  was  not 
so  humble.  He  laughed. 

"We've  didled  'em,  kid,"  he  said,  yawning  and 
stretching  luxuriously.  "This  is  great!" 

Felisi  squatted  on  the  platform  and  watched  him  in 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  29 

silence.  Suddenly  his  hand  went  to  his  hip  pocket,  and 
he  drew  out  a  joint  of  bamboo  corked  at  one  end.  He 
extracted  the  cork  with  his  teeth  and  poured  out  on  to 
the  platform  a  stream  of  pearls.  He  hummed  a  little 
air  as  he  sat  looking  at  them. 

"Worth  a  bit  of  trouble,  aren't  they?"  he  suggested. 

Felisi  nodded,  though  personally  she  preferred  imita- 
tion pink  coral.  It  was  easier  to  come  by,  and  more 
colourful. 

"And  there  was  trouble,"  he  added  reminiscently. 
"Crane  didn't  play  the  game  by  me.  Partnerships 
again!  Never  did  believe  in  partnerships,  but  what's 
a  fellow  to  do  when  he's  got  the  will,  and  the  knowledge, 
and  the  muscle,  and  no  dibs  to  back  'em  up?" 

Felisi  shook  her  head  and  looked  sympathetic. 
Amongst  her  many  other  accomplishments  she  was 
probably  the  best  listener  in  the  world.  Her  attitude 
appeared  to  encourage  the  white  man. 

"  Such  a  time ! "  he  breathed .  * '  First  chance  I've  had 
of  thinking  about  it  or  having  a  look  at  them,"  he  added, 
rolling  the  pearls  to  and  fro  under  his  lean  brown  fingers. 
"First  of  all  in  the  cutter.  You  get  to  hate  the 
way  a  man  hangs  up  his  hat  if  you're  alone  with  him 
long  enough.  Heavens,  how  I  came  to  hate  that  man! 
He  was  mean — dirty  mean  in  thought  and  action — and 
he  was  one  of  your  oily  sort  until  something  went  wrong, 
then  he  was  peevish  as  a  sick  child,  and  with  as  much 
to  back  it  up.  You  couldn't  hit  him.  You  felt  you 
were  up  against  a  man- woman,  or  a  woman-man,  which- 
ever way  you  like  to  put  it — worst  of  both,  you  know, 
like  a  half-caste." 


30  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Me  know  'um,"  Felisi  thought  fit  to  interpolate. 
"It  was  after  we  got  to  the  lagoon,"  the  white  man 
went  on — "after  the  third  pearl,  to  be  exact.  The 
whole  lot  weren't  worth  fifty  pounds,  but  we  were 
gloating  over  them  on  the  cabin  table.  Crane  would 
pick  'em  up,  then  I  would.  We  were  talking  some  bosh 
about  the  biggest  being  worth  a 
possible  fifty  pounds.  Fifty 
pounds,  when  it  was  as  deformed  as 
a  hunchback !  But  we  liked  to  talk 
big.  It  kept  our  pecker  up.  I 
looked  at  Crane  suddenly,  and  I 
saw  his  eyes  by  lamp-light.  They  were  fastened  on 
me,  and  they  hated  me.  They  hated  me  as  much  as 
I  hated  him,  but  for  a  different  reason.  The  pearls  were 
the  reason  for  his  case.  I  laughed — I  couldn't  help  it. 
It  struck  me  as  so  darned  funny,  us  two  sitting  in  a 
cabin  twelve  feet  by  ten,  hating  one  another." 
Felisi  laughed,  too.  It  was  a  white  man's  joke. 
"I  think  Crane  must  have  mistaken  my  laugh.  Any- 
way, we  both  knew  what  we  thought  of  each  other  as 
surely  as  though  we  had  spoken.  It  got  worse.  We 
did  quite  well,  and  Crane's  hate  increased  with  the 
quantity  and  size  of  the  pearls.  Mine  couldn't  get  any 
worse  than  it  had  been  at  the  beginning,  so  I  was  out  of 
the  running.  But  do  you  suppose  we  said  nasty  things 
to  one  another?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  For  sheer  politeness 
you  couldn't  have  equalled  us  south  of  the  Line.  It 
was  'An  uncommonly  good  day,  Jim,'  from  Crane,  and 
'Good  enough,'  and  'Right-oh,'  from  me.  'If  we  go  on 
like  this — '  from  Crane,  and  'Touch  wood!'  from  me. 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  31 

It  came  to  being  polite  at  meals  in  the  end,  and  I  didn't 
laugh.  I  must  have  lost  my  sense  of  humour  those 
days." 

Felisi  nodded  her  head  understandingly.  The  white 
man  might  have  been  talking  to  the  lady  with  the  gold 
hair  behind  the  bar  in  Levuka  for  all  the  difference  he 
seemed  to  find  in  his  audience.  Felisi  took  it  as  an 
unconscious  compliment,  which  indeed  it  was. 

"Then  came  what  I'd  been  expecting.  But  I'd  hid- 
den the  dinghy  oars,  and  hadn't  given  him  credit  for 
the  pluck  of  swimming  a  hundred  yards  through  sharks. 
He  did  it.  It's  wonderful  what  fifty  first-grade  pearls 
will  do  with  a  man-woman.  Luckily  it  was  a  mangrove 
country  we  were  anchored  off,  and  there  were  three 
miles  of  it  before  you  could  get  to  real  solid  earth.  I 
tracked  him  as  easily  as  you  would  an  elephant,  and  just 
before  nightfall  something  white  moved  on  the  other 
side  of  a  gully.  I  fired,  and  went  over.  It  was  Crane, 
lying  on  his  face,  with  his  fat  legs  sprawled,  dead  as 
meat;  and  the  pearls  were  in  the  corner  of  his  beastly 
bandana  handkerchief,  that  hadn't  been  washed  for 
months." 

The  white  man  sat  propped  against  the  dilo  trunk, 
staring  out  to  sea  with  a  disgusted  expression  still  lin- 
gering on  his  face,  presumably  at  the  thought  of  the 
bandana  handkerchief. 

Felisi  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  She  knew  by  in- 
stinct when  to  do  either,  and  presently  the  white  man 
went  on,  though  more  slowly : 

"It's  the  first  man  I've  killed.  I'm  not  used  to  shoot- 
ing at  men,  much  less  killing  them.  But  I  wasn't  sorry. 


32  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

It  rather  surprised  me  how  I  took  it  when  I  found  him 
dead.  Somehow  it  never  struck  me  that  I  couldn't  go 
out  into  the  world  and  get  on  with  life  as  I  had  before. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  rid  the  world  of  something 
dirty  mean,  and  that  was  all  there  was  to  it.  The  other 
came  later — in  the  bush,  and  especially  at  night,  when 
the  mist  rises  and  the  tree  fungus  glows  through  it  like 
a  lamp  in  a  London  fog.  I  came  to  know  what  it  is  to 
have  killed  a  man — even  a  man-woman — and  what  it  is 
to  be  the  pet  of  a  man-hunt.  Heavens" — he  glanced 
over  his  shoulder,  then  laughed  nervously — "it's  worse 
than  playing  spooks  with  the  lights  out!  They  haunt 
you  all  right.  You  think  you're  done  with  them — 
thrown  them  off — but  you  haven't;  they  bob  up  again 
and  come  creeping  on  through  the  bush.  I  don't  know, 
but  I  think  it  must  be  Hanson  that's  got  my  track. 
He's  a  good  shot — that  was  a  classy  shot,  five  hundred 
yards,  and  I  was  moving — the  only  man  of  them  worth 
thinking  about,  middling  tall  and  chunky,  with  a 
toothbrush  moustache.  You're  sure  you  haven't  seen 
him?" 

"Sure,"  mimicked  Felisi. 

"I  got  him,  though,  through  the  leg — waited  behind 
a  lantana  bush  until  he  was  on  top  of  me,  and  then 
hadn't  the  pluck  to  shoot  him  anywhere  but  in  the  leg. 
I'm  glad  I  didn't,  too;  he's  all  right,  and  he's  got  to 
do  his  work.  It's  queer,  but  you  positively  get  to  like 
a  man  that  sticks  to  you  the  way  he's  stuck  to  me.  It 
becomes  a  sort  of  ghastly  game,  with  unwritten  rules  to 
it — through  mangrove  swamps  and  mazes  of  under- 
brush, up  over  volcanic  rocks  and  across  rivers  with  the 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  33 

worst  sort  of  shark  in  them.  I  was  lost,  properly  lost, 
and  I  know  he  was,  but  we  kept  on.  He  never  left  me — 
day  and  night  he  never — left — me ! " 

The  white  man's  eyes  were  suddenly  alert  and  staring 
fixedly  at  the  reed  brake  on  the  far  side  of  the  beach. 
His  voice  had  dropped,  then  ceased  altogether.  His 
jaw  hung  down.  Out  of  the  reed  brake  on  to  the  beach 
limped  a  man  with  a  rifle  under  his  arm. 

He  was  a  hundred  yards  away,  and  looking  out  to 
sea,  but  the  man  up  on  the  look-out  seemed  to  shrivel 
into  himself  on  the  far  side  of  the  dilo  trunk.  Felisi 
was  wearing  a  red  hibiscus  blossom,  but  the  white  man 
snatched  it  out  of  her  hair. 

"  S-sh !     Lie  down ! "  he  breathed. 

"You  all  right,"  whispered  Felisi  reassuringly. 

The  white  man  seized  her  roughly  by  the  wrist  and 
jerked  her  down  beside  him. 

"Lie  there!"  he  hissed.  "It  is  Hanson!  How's  the 
beach?" 

"Beach,  him  all  right,"  quavered  Felisi,  looking  out 
through  the  branches.  The  white  man  forced  her  down 
to  the  platform. 

"You  little  fool!  I  mean,  is  it  dry  where  we  came 
over  it — powdery?  Will  it  show  the  difference — dif- 
ference, savvy? — between  a  naked  foot — your  foot  and 
mine?  "  The  white  man  indicated  his  long-legged  boots 
with  a  slight  movement. 

"Beach,  him  all  right,"  pouted  Felisi  with  the  air  of 
one  defending  her  personal  property  against  unfair  as- 
persion. "Him  no  show  diff'rence." 

"What's  he  doing  now?" 


34  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Felisi  could  feel  the  white  man's  body  trembling 
against  her  own.  She  peeped  out  and  saw  the  man  on 
the  beach  bending  over  the  disturbance  in  the  sand 
where  the  white  man  had  fallen.  Felisi  was  at  a  loss. 
The  very  humble  child  lying  beside  her  needed  soothing. 

"What's  he  doing?"  it  repeated  peevishly. 

"Him  go  so,"  said  Felisi,  dropping  her  head  with 
the  pantomimic  art  of  the  meke  dancer.  "Him  very 
tired." 

"Ah!"  muttered  the  white  man,  and  smiled  grimly. 

Felisi  knew  that  she  was  committed  beyond  recall. 
She  had  taken  sides,  and  she  did  not  regret  her  choice. 
The  heart  of  a  woman  instinctively  goes  out  to  the 
fugitive — he  is  the  weaker — and  when  once  the  Polyne- 
sian has  taken  sides,  there  is  no  turning  back. 

Presently  she  had  to  tell  him — 

"Him  come  close  up." 

The  man  on  the  beach  was  limping  along  its  edge, 
peering  into  the  reed  brake.  He  would  come  directly 
under  the  dilo  tree. 

The  white  man  at  Felisi's  side  lay  as  still  as  stone. 
His  jaw  was  set,  his  muscles  tense.  Felisi's  hand  went 
out  as  stealthily  as  a  snake,  drew  the  revolver  from  its 
holster,  and  placed  it  in  his  hand.  The  white  man 
seemed  not  to  notice  it,  and  still  lay  motionless,  staring 
into  the  twisted  branches  of  the  dilo  tree,  but  listening 
— listening  with  every  nerve  to  the  soft  crunch  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps  in  sand.  They  ceased  directly 
under  the  platform.  Felisi  could  hear  the  beating  of 
her  own  heart.  A  minah  bird  squawked  shrilly  in  the 
branches  overhead,  and  she  felt  her  wrist  crushed  in  a 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  35 

vise-like  grip.  There  was  the  click  of  an  opening  lid. 
A  match  was  struck.  The  pleasant  smell  of  good 
tobacco  smoke  floated  up  to  them  on  the  still  air;  then 
the  footsteps  passed  on. 

"Wonder  he  didn't  smell  me,"  grinned  the  white  man. 
"It's  Hanson  all  right;  he  smokes  Heraldic — Heraldic 
in  a  good  airtight  box,  and  a  woody  briar."  He  smacked 
his  lips. 

"Why  you  no  shoot?"  demanded  Felisi.  "Pouf, 
bang — him  finish !" 

"Not  till  I'm  cornered,"  answered  the  white  man. 
"I  don't  want  to  kill  Hanson.  He's  a  good  fellow. 
I've  got  nothing  against  him." 

Felisi  scrambled  into  a  squatting  position  to  think  this 
out.  Her  small  bronze  face  was  puckered  with  be- 
wilderment. Here  was  one  man  chasing  another  man 
to  catch  him  and  have  him  killed,  yet  the  pursued 
"had  nothing  against"  the  pursuer!  Was  there  ever 
such  an  amazing  state  of  affairs?  "A  sort  of  ghastly 
game  with  unwritten  rules  in  it."  Then  there  was  no 
need  to  make  the  suggestion  that  had  been  in  her  mind 
— namely,  that  she  should  dispatch  the  man  on  the 
beach  herself  in  one  of  the  many  ways  that  she  had  at 
her  command. 

"Besides,"  the  white  man  went  on,  with  a  hint  of 
apology  in  his  tone,  "it  wouldn't  make  any  difference. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  law?  " 

Felisi  nodded  vigorously.  She  happened  to  know 
something  about  this  thing  called  "law." 

"Well,  there  it  is.  It  never  stops.  The  law  says 
that  I  shall  be  strung  up  by  the  neck  until  I'm  dead, 


36 

and  Hanson  is  the  law.  If  I  kill  him,  another  man 
takes  his  place,  and  so  on  for  ever.  The  law  never 
stops." 

"Him  big  fellah,  law,"  mused  Felisi. 

"I  should  just  say  he  is,"  muttered  the  white  man, 
leaning  limply  against  the  dilo  trunk  and  looking  out  to 
sea  with  melancholy  eyes.  "He's  a  bad  fellah  to  bunt 
up  against,  too,  but  sometimes — sometimes  he  can  be 
given  the  slip.  Look  here,"  he  added,  with  sudden 
eagerness,  "Hanson  may  have  gone  on,  and  he  may  not; 
I  wouldn't  trust  him  a  yard.  There's  only  one  way 
out  of  this  thing.  You  be  fishing  in  a  canoe — a  canoe 
with  a  sail  in  it,  mind  you — off  the  beach  to-night.  I'll 
swim  out  ...  all  I've  got,"  he  ended  abruptly. 

Felisi  nodded. 

"Bless  you,  kid!"  said  the  white  man,  and  fell  to  coll- 
ecting the  scattered  pearls. 

On  her  way  to  the  village  she  met  "the  law."  He 
was  sitting  on  a  fallen  palm  beside  the  track  that  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  beach  and  the  village. 

"Sayadra,"  was  his  cheerful  greeting,  though  his 
brown  face  was  haggard  with  exhaustion. 

Felisi  giggled  and  squirmed  in  the  approved  fashion 
of  Island  girls  who  have  never  had  the  opportunity  of 
studying  white  human  nature  in  Levuka. 

But  "the  law"  did  not  smile.  His  steady  gray  eyes 
seemed  to  burn  holes  in  Felisi's  face,  and  he  spoke 
sharply,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  used  to  receiving 
prompt  answers. 

"Have  you  seen  a  white  man  about  here?"  he  de- 
manded, in  her  own  tongue. 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  37 

Felisi  continued  to  giggle  and  shuffle  her  feet  in  the 
red  earth  of  the  track. 

"Answer  me!"  snapped  "the  law." 

"No,  sir,"  faltered  Felisi. 

"Where  have  you  just  come  from?" 

The  question  came  so  quickly  that  the  answer  was  out 
of  Felisi's  mouth  before  she  could  properly  form  it. 

"The  beach,  sir." 

"  Then  why  didn't  I  see  you  on  the  beach  just  now?  " 

But  Felisi's  mind  was  nimble  enough  when  it  was 
alert.  She  giggled,  though  it  was  an  effort,  with  the 
awful  eyes  of  "the  law"  upon  her. 

"Answer  me,"  he  barked. 

"I  was  bathing,  sir,"  she  simpered,  with  long,  blue- 
black  lashes  sweeping  her  cheeks. 

"Well,  what  of  that?" 

"I  hid  myself,  sir." 

"The  law"  laughed — he  actually  laughed,  though  it 
was  a  mirthless  sort  of  sound. 

"There,  run  along  to  the  village,  my  girl,  and  tell  the 
Bull  that  Beritania  Levu  (Great  Britain)  wants  him  here 
at  once.  And  tell  him  to  send  down  something  to  eat 
and  drink  in  the  meantime." 

"The  village  is  quite  close,"  suggested  Felisi  diffi- 
dently, "and  the  guest-house  is  cool."  A  wild  scheme 
flitted  through  her  mind  of  launching  the  canoe  while 
"the  law"  was  in  the  village. 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered,  and  his  eyes  resumed  the 
burning  process,  "but  I  shall  stay  here." 

As  Felisi  turned  to  go,  these  same  eyes  were  sweeping 
the  beach.  They  seemed  to  see  all  things, 


38  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

She  felt  them  at  her  back  as  she  swung  on  toward  the 
village.  "The  law"  was  certainly  a  "big  fellah." 

Not  long  before  sunset  Felisi  was  fishing  in  the  canoe 
perhaps  fifty  yards  out  from  the  beach  of  Luana.  It 
was  very  simple,  very  unexhilarating.  If  you  dropped 
an  old  boot  on  the  end  of  a  string  over  the  side,  you 
would  catch  something  off  the  beach  of  Luana;  but 
Felisi's  hand  trembled  as  she  continued  to  land  fish  after 
fish.  The  sun  kissed  the  sea  and  went  to  bed,  and 
Felisi  continued  to  fish,  with  her  eyes  on  the  shore. 
There  was  no  moon,  and  there  were  few  stars,  but  there 
was  the  vague  half-light  that  never  deserts  a  tropical 
night,  and  presently  a  shadow  flitted  across  the  beach 
and  dissolved  into  the  sea,  but  not  entirely.  A  still 
smaller  shadow,  and  round,  was  gliding  on  the  surface 
of  the  water.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  until  it  was 
possible  to  see  the  spreading  fan  of  ripples  in  its  wake 
and  something  on  its  summit  that  gleamed  even  in  the 
half-light. 

Then  the  silence  of  the  night  was  split  asunder  by  the 
crack  of  a  rifle,  and  a  bullet  splashed  into  the  water  a 
foot  from  the  moving  shadow.  It  vanished,  and  silence 
closed  down,  but  only  for  a  moment.  It  was  clear  that 
the  eyes  of  "the  law"  saw  all  things.  The  next  bullet 
was  nearer,  and  each  time  the  shadow  vanished  it  was 
for  a  shorter  time,  and  there  was  a  shorter  silence. 
Felisi  strained  her  eyes  into  the  darkness,  and  at  last 
there  was  a  long  silence — a  very  long  silence.  Her 
clasped  hands  were  pressed  down  over  her  heart.  And 
still  the  silence  continued.  She  paddled  swiftly  in  its 
direction,  and  as  the  canoe  slid  gently  on  to  the  sand, 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  39 

shots  came  muffled  from  the  bush.  The  shadow  had 
missed  the  canoe,  then,  and  returned  to  the  shore. 

They  were  fighting  in  a  palm  grove  now — the  shadow 
and  "the  law" — still  fighting.  Would  it  ever  cease? 
Felisi  wondered,  as  she  followed  up  the  sounds  of  con- 
flict. Truly  "the  law"  never  stops.  From  palm  trunk 
to  lantana  bush  they  flitted,  the  shadow  always  re- 
treating, "the  law"  always  advancing.  A  tongue  of 
flame  would  be  answered  with  a  tongue  of  flame,  report 
with  report.  It  was  an  argument  in  flame  and  lead. 
Then  quite  suddenly  there  fell  a  silence — a  silence  that 
lasted  an  unconscionable  time,  and  out  of  it  came  a 
voice  in  breathless  jerks — 

"What's— the  use— Lucas?" 

And  an  answering  voice  replied — 

"That's — my  business.  You'd — have — shot  him 
yourself — Hanson . ' ' 

"I  dare  say;  but — I  must  warn  you — that  anything 
you  may  say — will "  • 

A  breathless  laugh  came  from  somewhere. 

"You  can  get  all  that — off  your  chest — when  you've 
got  me." 

"You're  out  of  ammunition." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  You  are.  I  know  the  Govern- 
ment ration,  and  I've  counted." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  then — 

"Wliat's  more,  I'll  prove  it." 

The  shadow  emerged  from  behind  a  lantana  bush, 
resolving  into  the  form  of  the  white  man.  He  stood 
quite  still  out  there  in  the  open,  his  white  ducks  loom- 


40  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

ing  clear  against  the  inky  background  of  the  underbrush. 
The  revolver  was  levelled  from  his  hip  in  his  right  hand. 
The  other  hung  inert  by  his  side. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "will  you  let  me  go  without  killing 
you,  Hanson?  I  don't  want  to." 

"Let  you  go!"  snapped  the  voice  of  "the  law,"  and 
a  glint  of  white  showed  behind  a  palm  trunk  not  forty 
paces  distant. 

"Don't  come  out!"  cried  the  white  man,  as  though 
afraid.  "Don't  come  out  without  your  hands  up, 
Hanson!" 

For  answer,  "the  law"  came  out  from  behind  the 
palm  trunk.  He  carried  his  rifle  clubbed,  and,  though 
he  limped  painfully,  he  came  straight  on. 

"You're  out  of  ammunition,  Lucas,"  he  said,  as  he 
advanced,  and  he  said  it  as  though  trying  to  convince 
himself  that  it  was  true.  You  know  you're  out  of 
ammunition."  The  revolver  was  pointing  directly  at 
his  chest,  and  still  he  came  on.  "It'll  save  no  end  of 
trouble,  both  for  you  and  me " 

He  was  not  more  than  five  paces  distant  now,  and  he 
was  staring  at  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver  as  though 
fascinated.  Just  so  had  Felisi  seen  fish  come  up  out  of 
the  depths  of  the  rock  pools  to  see  the  light  of  the  torch 
and  be  speared.  The  white  man  stood  quite  still  as 
though  thinking  what  he  would  do.  Then,  in  a  flash, 
he  raised  the  revolver  to  fling  it  in  the  face  of  "the  law," 
and  the  butt  of  the  clubbed  rifle  fell.  Both  missed 
their  mark. 

"Didn't  I  say "  grunted  "the  law,"  and  the  rest 

was  lost  in  the  impact  of  their  bodies.  The  white  man 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  41 

had  but  one  arm,  the  other  could  scarce  stand  for  lame- 
ness, yet  they  rocked  in  one  another's  embrace  for  what 
seemed  minutes  to  Felisi,  before  crashing  to  earth  in  a 
writhing  heap.  They  were  on  the  bank  of  a  stream  that 
ran  through  the  grove,  and  Felisi  caught  her  breath  as 
they  rolled  nearer  and  nearer  the  edge.  It  was  a  four- 
foot  drop  at  most,  and  the  water  was  shallow,  trickling 
slowly  over  the  bed  of  powdered  coral  sand.  But 
Felisi  knew  that  stream.  There  were  many  like  it  on 
Luana. 

Here,  on  the  ground,  "the  law"  had  the  upper  hand, 
for  he  had  the  use  of  both  arms,  and  his  lame  leg  was 
not  such  a  handicap.  He  was  strong,  too — stronger 
than  the  white  man,  though  both  were  pitifully  weak 
from  their  exertions.  Would  it  never  end?  They 
jerked  and  strained. 

Suddenly  the  white  man  lay  still  staring  up  into  the 
roof  of  palm  leaves  with  agony  written  on  every  line  of 
his  haggard  face.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  seized 
with  sudden  paralysis.  It  was  paralysis,  for  "the  law" 
had  a  hold  on  his  arm — a  certain  hold.  Surely  this  was 
the  end.  But  Felisi  had  taken  sides,  and  the  Polyne- 
sian never  turns  back.  "The  law"  uttered  a  stifled  cry 
as  her  teeth  sank  into  the  back  of  his  hand.  The  hold 
was  lost,  the  arm  free.  The  white  man  kicked  out 
with  all  his  strength,  and  "the  law"  tottered  for  a 
moment  before  rolling  down  the  bank  into  the  stream. 

The  water  was  not  two  inches  in  depth,  yet  when  he 
struggled  to  rise  he  sank  knee-deep.  Another  supreme 
effort,  and  the  glistening  white  sand  was  about  his  waist. 
After  that  he  sank  by  inches,  his  stern  gray  eyes  turned 


42  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

toward  firm  ground,  not  three  yards  distant,  but  utter- 
ing no  sound. 

The  white  man  had  fainted,  and  when  his  eyes  opened 
Felisi  was  bending  over  him. 

"Come  quick!"  she  said.  "You  all  right.  Come 
quick !  Canoe,  him ' ' 

"Where's  Hanson?"  muttered  the  white  man. 

Felisi  pointed  toward  the  river  bank. 

The  white  man's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"In  the  river — drowned?" 

Felisi  shook  her  head. 

"Him  go  long  road,  all  the  same,  pretty  quick,"  she 
told  him  reassuringly.  But  for  some  strange  reason  it 
failed  to  reassure.  The  white  man  crawled  to  the  edge 
of  the  bank  and  lay  there  in  the  grass.  Felisi  could  hear 
his  voice. 

"What  about  it,  Hanson?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"It'll  get  you  in  less  than  an  hour.     Don't  be  a  fool." 

Still  no  answer,  and  a  long  pause,  during  which  the 
white  man  could  have  reached  the  canoe.  Felisi  could 
have  shaken  him. 

"I  must  get  out  of  here,  Hanson.  I  shall  get  clean 
away.  The  girl  has  a  canoe.  Whatever  difference  will 
it  make?" 

Another  pause. 

"What  about  it,  Hanson?" 

There  was  actually  a  pleading  note  in  the  voice. 

Was  this  one  of  the  rules  of  the  game?  Felisi  gave 
it  up.  Her  white  teeth  snapped  together  in  sheer  ex- 
asperation. 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  43 

"Good-bye,  Hanson!" 

The  white  man  staggered  to  his  feet  and  stood  up- 
right, swaying  for  a  moment,  then  lurched  off  toward 
the  beach,  leaning  on  Felisi's  shoulder. 

Twice  he  stopped  dead  in  his  tracks  and  listened  in- 
tently, but  no  sound  came  to  them  except  the  soft 
breath  of  the  wind  amongst  the  palm  leaves. 

They  launched  the  canoe  in  silence.  Felisi  hoisted 
the  sail,  and  presently  the  ripple  of  water  past  the 
canoe's  side  told  them  they  were  under  way.  The  dark 
line  of  the  shore  grew  slowly  fainter.  The  white  man 
sat  in  the  stern,  steering  with  the  paddle,  and  staring 
straight  before  him.  He  was  heading  for  the  open  sea 
and  freedom,  yet  his  face  was  a  grim  mask,  and  there 
was  no  joy  in  his  eyes. 

Felisi  did  not  speak;  she  sat  watching  him  from  the 
main  thwart  and  noticing  many  things.  A  frown  had 
come  to  his  forehead  and  his  eyes  were  restless,  casting 
this  way  and  that  at  nothing  save  the  dark  waters  slip- 
ping past  the  canoe.  Sometimes,  too,  he  would  hold 
the  paddle  under  his  arm  and  pass  his  hand  over  his 
eyes  as  though  trying  to  brush  aside  some  vision  that 
haunted  them.  But  slowly  she  saw  a  change  steal  over 
him.  Set  purpose  came  into  his  eyes,  the  grim  mask 
of  his  face  gave  way  to  animation — eagerness.  He 
muttered  a  curse  at  the  failing  wind,  and  Felisi  became 
aware  that  their  course  had  changed,  with  his  mind. 
The  canoe  no  longer  headed  for  the  open  sea,  and  a  little 
later  she  saw  the  well-known  coastline  of  Luana  loom- 
ing over  the  bows.  He  had  put  back. 

The  canoe  had  no  sooner  grounded  than  the  white 


44  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

man  leapt  ashore  and  ran  up  the  beach.  Felisi  found 
him  at  the  bank  of  the  stream — the  sand  had  risen  to 
the  chin  of  "the  law" — tugging  and  straining  with 
his  one  hand. 

It  took  them  fully  half  an  hour  of  such  work  to  ex- 
tricate "the  law,"  and  at  the  end  of  it  the  two  men  lay 
side  by  side  on  the  river  bank,  too  exhausted  to  move 
or  speak. 

Then  at  last  the  silence  was  broken,  it  was  "  the  law" 
who  spoke. 

"Edward  Lucas,"  he  said,  rolling  on  to  his  side,  "1 
arrest  you,  in  the  name  of  the  King,  for  the  murder  of 
Walter  Crane." 

The  white  man  lay  on  his  back  with  closed  eyes. 

"Give  me  a  fill  of  your  Heraldic,  Hanson,"  he  said. 

Even  this  was  not  all.  Felisi  was  despatched  to  the 
village  by  "the  law,"  but  before  going  she  waited  for 
confirmation  of  the  order.  The  white  man  gave  it  by 
opening  his  eyes  and  nodding  wearily.  The  two  men 
were  carried  to  the  guest-house  on  litters,  and  a  guard 
of  native  police — very  smart  in  their  blue  tunics  and 
fluted  sulus — stationed  itself  outside  the  door. 

It  was  two  days  before  the  white  man  could  walk. 
And  when  he  crossed  the  room,  trailing  Heraldic  to- 
bacco smoke  in  his  wake,  he  caught  sight  of  the  guard 
and  turned  back. 

"Hanson,"  he  said,  "won't  you  get  rid  of  this  pan- 
tomime?" 

The  guard  was  dismissed — very  smartly. 

"The  law"  was  undoubtedly  the  stronger  man.  In 
one  night  his  vitality  returned,  and,  when  the  white 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME  45 

man  was  up  and  about,  he  sat  talking  with  him  in  the 
guest-house.  Felisi  heard  the  white  man  tell  the  story 
of  the  cutter  and  the  pearls  and  the  hate.  And  when 
it  was  done,  "the  law"  nodded  slowly  and  said:  "Yes, 
I  knew  Crane." 

That  was  all. 

Later  that  evening  he  went  to  the  door  and  stood 
looking  out  over  the  green  hills  that  tumbled  to  the  sea. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  dark  night,"  he  said  absently. 

The  white  man  was  lying  on  a  pile  of  mats,  and  did 
not  answer. 

"A  deuced  dark  night,"  repeated  "the  law" — "one 
of  those  nights  when  things  happen." 

The  white  man  lifted  himself  on  to  his  elbow,  but  still 
remained  silent. 

"And  there's  a  fair  northerly  breeze,"  added  the 
other  irrelevantly. 

The  white  man  was  staring  fixedly  at  the  broad  back 
of  "the  law,"  silhouetted  in  the  doorway.  An  eager 
light  flashed  into  his  eyes  and  was  gone. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  and  lay  back  on  the  mats. 

In  the  morning  he  was  gone. 

So  was  Felisi's  canoe.  But  "the  law"  made  that 
good,  even  as  he  scowled  his  displeasure  at  the  escape. 

In  the  taro  patch  Felisi  often  puckers  her  brow  over 
the  problems  of  an  eventful  life,  but  in  this  particular 
case  she  can  get  no  further  in  her  deductions  than  that 
"the  law"  is  a  "big  fellah,"  and  the  way  of  the  white 
man  beyond  belief. 


THE  PRETENDERS 

FELISI  squatted  on  the  beach  of  Luana,  the  cen- 
tre of  a  group  of  chattering  female  relatives 
watching  the  men  launch  the  big  canoe  with 
many  cries  and  much  unnecessary  puffing  and  strain- 
ing. 

They  were  showing  off  in  front  of  their  women  folk, 
a  weakness  not  uncommon  in  other  places  than  the 
beach  of  Luana,  as  Felisi  knew;  and,  while  the  female 
relatives  clucked  their  admiration,  her  own  wise  eyes 
took  in  the  scene  with  no  other  emotion  than  pleasur- 
able excitement  at  the  prospect  of  leaving  the  taro 
patch  and  the  fish-trap  for  the  mysterious  lures  of  the 
outside  world  that  she  had  glimpsed  while  selling  imita- 
tion pink  coral  on  the  wharf  at  Levuka. 

Felisi  was  going  away.  She  was  dressed  in  her  most 
modest  blue  wrapper,  and  beside  her  on  the  sand  re- 
posed her  simple  but  effective  trunk,  a  kerosene  tin  cut 
neatly  in  half  and  lashed  together  with  sinnet. 

The  whole  family  was  going  away;  it  was  an  upheaval, 
a  cataclysm,  and  the  cause  of  it  all  was  ambition,  noth- 
ing less.  Amongst  other  fatal  maladies  that  the  ubi- 
quitous white  man  in  his  wisdom  had  seen  fit  to  inflict 
on  the  inhabitants  of  "The  Islands  of  the  Blest,"  this 
thing  ambition  had  seized  on  Felisi's  family  like  a 
plague.  Money  had  come  to  Luana — copper  and  silver 

46 


THE  PRETENDERS  47 

and  gold — and  it  was  discovered  that  these  unlovely 
discs  of  metal  were  not  without  their  uses.  For  in- 
stance, in  sufficient  quantities  they  could  be  exchanged 
for  articles  that  it  was  beyond  the  power  of  Luana  to 
produce.  Had  not  Felisi  brought  back  from  her  his- 
toric pilgrimage  to  Levuka  a  sewing-machine  from 
Americania,  and  a  mouth-organ? 

And  now  it  was  a  boat.  Nothing  would  satisfy 
Felisi's  father  but  a  boat  that  he  had  seen  in  Levuka. 
Apparently  it  could  do  anything  but  talk,  and  he  was 
not  altogether  certain  it  was  not  capable  of  that.  It 
would  carry  five  times  as  much  produce  to  market  as  the 
big  canoe,  and  in  half  the  time.  It — but  Felisi  had  for- 
gotten the  category  of  its  virtues.  The  fact  remained 
that  it  was  necessary  to  collect  sufficient  gold  discs  to 
buy  the  boat — fifty  in  all — and,  as  usual,  the  women- 
folk were  called  upon  to  do  the  collecting.  Felisi's 
mother  was  going  to  be  scullery  maid  in  a  boarding- 
house  where  she  happened  to  know  the  cook,  her  aunt 
was  to  lend  local  colour  to  a  native  curio  dealer's  shop 
on  the  parade,  and  various  female  cousins  were  going 
to  help  in  a  Samoan  laundry.  Even  a  male  cousin  had 
condescended  to  become  a  wharf  porter  for  a  month  or 
two.  The  remainder  of  the  male  element  was  going 
to  be  busily  engaged  in  "keeping  the  home  fires  burn- 
ing," or  its  equivalent,  and  the  result  of  their  combined 
efforts  was  to  be — the  boat. 

It  had  occurred  to  one  of  Felisi's  aunts — a  woman 
with  far  too  much  to  say,  as  her  husband  had  often  re- 
marked— to  ask  why  it  was  necessary  to  carry  five  times 
as  much  produce  to  market  in  half  the  time,  and  the 


48  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

answer  accorded  her  by  Felisi's  father  was  unusually 
tolerant — "To  make  still  more  gold  discs,  of  course." 

She  then  actually  had  the  temerity  to  inquire  why  it 
was  necessary  to  make  more  gold  discs,  when  for  count- 
less generations  they  had  succeeded  in  living  quite  com- 
fortably without  any  discs  at  all.  But  this  was  too 
much.  Felisi's  father  had  snorted  violently  and 
changed  the  subject. 

And  Felisi,  silent,  wise-eyed?  As  well  as  a  sewing- 
machine  from  Americania  and  a  mouth  organ,  she  had 
brought  back  from  Levuka  an  unrivalled  knowledge  of 
the  white  man  and  his  tongue.  Everyone  prophesied 
a  great  future  for  Felisi  of  Luana. 

Meanwhile,  and  not  so  very  far  away,  a  certain  Mrs. 
Caton  leant  over  a  certain  breakfast  table  on  the  Rena 
River  and  said:  "Jack!" 

Tt  was  the  second  time  she  had  addressed  her  husband 
without  being  noticed,  but  she  was  used  to  it. 

"Wake  up,  old  boy,"  she  added,  without  resentment. 
"I  have  something  really  startling  to  say." 

Mr.  Caton — an  old-young  man,  with  sparse  sandy 
hair  and  a  preoccupied  air — lifted  his  red-ochre  face 
from  a  plate  of  toast  and  honey,  and  blinked.  Also  he 
smiled,  the  kindliest  possible  smile. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.     Say  on." 

"I  don't  like  house-boys,"  announced  Mrs.  Caton. 

"You  don't  like  house-boys,"  repeated  her  husband 
dazedly.  Then,  after  wiping  his  mouth  and  drawing 
his  coffee-cup  a  trifle  nearer:  "What  do  you  intend  to 
do  about  it?  " 

"They're  all  right  for  waiting,  and  that  sort  of  thing," 


THE  PRETENDERS  49 

continued  Mrs.  Caton,  "but  as  personal  servants 
they're — ugh! — too  creepy,  crawly.  They  remind  me 
of  a  snake.  Besides,  I  want  some  sort  of  female  com- 
panionship in  the  house,  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
lady's  maid." 

"Something  in  the  nature  of  a  lady's  maid,"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Caton.  If  his  wife  had  said  she  wanted  a 
rhinoceros  and  two  antimacassars  in  the  house,  he 
would  have  repeated  the  suggestion  in  exactly  the  same 
way.  Mrs.  Caton  knew  this  husband  of  hers,  and 
she  still  loved  him,  which  is,  of  course,  part  of  the 
miracle. 

"My  dear  Jack,"  she  cried,  "do  please  try  and  show 
some  interest,  just  for  a  minute,  in  something  besides 
the  Corona  Catoni!  I  know  it's  going  to  be  the  most 
wonderful  thing  that  ever  happened,  but  I'm  afraid 
you've  got  me  at  present." 

For  answer,  Mr.  Caton  rose,  leaving  a  slice  of  thickly 
buttered  toast  to  be  inundated  by  the  slowly  encroach- 
ing honey  on  his  plate,'  and,  deliberately  placing  his 
chair  beside  his  wife's,  sat  down.  Her  hand — white  as 
the  tablecloth — was  resting  beside  the  sugar  basin,  and 
her  husband's  strong  brown  one  closed  over  it. 

"Joan,"  he  said  gently,  "please  don't  say  things 
like  that.  They  hurt,  and  you  know  they're  not  true." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Mrs.  Caton  laughed  softly,  "but  you 
take  such  a  lot  of  rousing,  Jack.  I  have  to  start  like  a 
penny  dreadful,  'The  duchess  lay  on  the  divan,  stabbed 
to  the  heart,'  or  something  like  that,  before  you  take 
any  interest." 

"My  dear  child,  I  am  interested,"  protested  Mr.  Ca- 


50  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

ton  earnestly,  "and  here  I  am  to  prove  it.  Let  me  see, 
what  was  it  you  wanted?" 

His  wife's  laughter  rang  out,  and  she  withdrew  her 
hand  and  placed  it  on  his. 

"You  funny  old  thing!  I  said  I  didn't  like  a  house- 
boy  as  a  personal  servant,  and  I  want  something  in  the 
nature  of  a  lady's  maid — something  feminine  about 
the  house,  you  know." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure!"  Mr.  Caton  thought  deeply. 
"How  about  Mrs.  Herbert?  She  might " 

"My  dear,  I  said  a  lady's  maid.  Mrs.  Herbert  would 
like  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"Then  it  will  have  to  be  a  native  of  some  sort.  How 
about  an  Indian  woman?" 

"Too  much  like  a  house-boy.  No,  I  think  I  should 
like  an  Islander — a  country  girl,  for  preference.  I 
don't  like  those  town-bred  natives — they're  sly." 

"But  she  won't  be  able  to  speak  English." 

Mrs.  Caton  toyed  with  the  sugar-tongs.  "No, 
there  is  that."  Then  she  looked  up.  "Never  mind," 
she  added  brightly,  "I'll  teach  her;  it  will  be  something 
to  do." 

Mr.  Caton  leant  forward  in  his  chair.  He  was  aware, 
and  not  for  the  first  time,  that  his  wife  was  not  looking 
as  she  had  looked  during  the  early  days  on  the  Rena 
River,  a  short  three  years  ago.  It  troubled  him  vaguely. 

"Joan,"  he  said,  his  kind  gray  eyes  searching  her  pale 
face,  "you're  not  looking  well." 

Mrs.  Caton  rose  slowly  and  went  over  to  the  ve- 
randa doorway,  looking  out  on  the  vivid  green  banks 
of  the  Rena  River. 


THE  PRETENDERS  51 

"No?"  she  queried  lightly. 

"No,"  repeated  her  husband.  "How  about  a  run 
home?" 

Mrs.  Caton  turned  with  an  eager  light  in  her  eyes. 

"Let's  see,  how  long  is  it 

"Three  years,"  she  supplied. 

"Three  years!"  Her  husband  looked  positively 
alarmed.  "Good  gracious,  I  had  no  idea!" 

"Hadn't  you?"  said  Mrs.  Caton. 

"Not  the  faintest.  You  must  go,  Joan — that's  all 
there  is  to  it — you  must  go.  And  you  know  how  you'll 
enjoy  it." 

The  light  had  faded  from  Mrs.  Caton's  eyes.  She 
leant  listlessly  against  the  door  jamb. 

"How  about  you,  Jack?"  she  suggested  lightly. 

"I?"  Her  husband  laughed  his  deep-toned  laugh. 
"Oh,  I'm  as  strong  as  a  horse,  and  there's  still  some- 
thing that  must  be  done." 

"Still  something?" 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  time,  if  it  doesn't 
bore  you,  but  I  must  stay  a  bit  longer — everything 
hangs  on  it — then  we'll  go  home  for  good." 

Mrs.  Caton  had  turned  again  to  the  river,  to  hide  her 
longing. 

"Roll  on  the  day,"  she  said  briskly. 

"You're  not  unhappy  here,  Joan?" 

She  came  over  and  put  one  white  hand  on  her  hus- 
band's shoulder. 

"Unhappy!"  she  repeated,  and  laughed.  It  was  a 
splendid  laugh — a  laugh  for  an  actress  to  be  proud  of. 

"You  know  what  they  said,  Joan." 


52  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Yes,  I  know  what  they  said.  And  they  were  wrong. 
Hasn't  three  years  proved  it?" 

Her  husband  pushed  back  his  chair  and  got  up.  He 
took  her  two  hands  in  his  and  kissed  her. 

"And  you'll  go?"  he  pleaded,  holding  her  from  him. 

"No,"  answered  Mrs.  Caton,  "I  don't  want  to  go — 

yet." 

"It's  foolish  of  you,"  he  told  her,  and  turned  toward 
the  door. 

"I  shall  have  my  'lady's  maid'  to  play  with,"  laughed 
Mrs.  Caton. 

"I'll  see  about  it  this  afternoon,  when  I  go  to  town,'* 
her  husband  called  back  to  her  from  the  veranda. 

He  stepped  out  into  the  blinding  sunlight  and  passed 
up  the  pathway  toward  the  bush-house.  Mrs.  Caton 
noticed  a  piece  of  bass  hanging  out  of  his  duck  jacket 
pocket.  He  was  going  to  "tinker  with  the  orchids." 
She  sighed  and  turned  back  into  the  living  room. 

And  that  was  why,  three  days  later,  Felisi  of  Luana 
came  to  the  bungalow  on  the  banks  of  the  Rena  River. 

"Something  in  the  nature  of  a  lady's-maid"  appeared 
in  a  neat  blue  wrapper,  and  accompanied  by  a  kerosene 
tin  trunk  lashed  with  sinnet.  Mrs.  Caton  fell  in  love 
with  her  on  the  instant,  and  though  Felisi's  regard  for 
Missus  Catoni  was  less  emotional,  it  was  none  the  less 
sincere.  She  thought  this  white  woman  the  most 
beautiful  thing  she  had  ever  seen,  with  her  coral-white 
skin,  dark  eyes,  and  hair  of  an  indescribable  colour. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  auburn,  and  it  was  Felisi's 
chief  delight  to  comb  it  morning  and  evening.  She 
found  her  duties  extraordinarily  light.  Missus  Catoni 


THE  PRETENDERS  53 

treated  her  as  a  companion  rather  than  a  servant,  and 
Felisi  was  earning  five  shillings  a  week — two  large  silver 
discs  toward  the  fifty  gold  ones  needed  for  the  wonder- 
ful boat. 

"Felisi,"  said  her  mistress  one  evening,  during  the 
hair-combing  rites,  "do  you  know  you  have  beautiful 
hair,  and  still  more  beautiful  eyes,  perfect  teeth,  and 
an  almost  perfect  figure?" 

"Yes,"  Felisi  answered  with  refreshing  candour. 

Missus  Catoni  laughed. 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  thought  per- 
haps you  didn't."  She  looked  into  the  reflection  of 
Felisi's  soft  brown  eyes  in  the  glass.  "I  believe  you 
know  a  good  deal  more  than  you  pretend,"  she  added 
thoughtfully. 

"Me  know  some,"  admitted  Felisi  modestly. 

"And  do  you  have  to  pretend  much,  Felisi?" 

"Sometimes." 

"  Why?  "  Missus  Catoni  was  never  tired  of  plumbing 
the  depths — or  as  near  the  depths  as  she  could  get — 
of  this  quaint  child-woman.  It  was  like  fishing  in  deep 
water — one  never  knew  what  strange  thing  would  be 
brought  to  light.  But,  like  all  white  folk,  she  had  not 
the  faintest  idea  that  in  the  process  she  herself  was 
being  plumbed,  and  to  greater  depths. 

The  indescribable  hair  was  finished,  and  Felisi 
squatted  on  the  matting  of  the  floor  to  await  further 
instructions.  But  Missus  Catoni  was  in  a  communica- 
tive mood. 

"Why?"  she  repeated  with  quiet  insistence. 

Felisi  shrugged  her  shoulders,  a  trick  she  had  learnt 


54  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

from  watching  a  French  lady  on  the  wharf  at  Levuka, 
and  one  she  had  found  effective. 

"Pretend,  him  all  right,"  she  pronounced  sagely. 
"Pretend  him  pink  coral,  no  white  coral,  plenty  more 
money.  Pretend  me  very,  very  poor,  an'  tired,  an' 
know  nothing,  plenty  heap  more  money." 

Each  one  of  these  distressful  symptoms  was  illus- 
trated in  tone  and  gesture  with  the  instinctive  faith- 
fulness of  a  meke  dancer.  Missus  Catoni  was  deeply 
interested. 

"Yes,  we  all  have  to  pretend  sometimes,  don't  we?" 
she  mused.  "Most  of  us  are  actors.  We  have  to  be. 
Some  are  better  at  it  than  others,  but  most  of  us  act." 

"Act,"  repeated  Felisi,  with  faithful  intonation.  It 
was  a  new  word.  She  was  learning  many  new  words 
on  the  Rena  River. 

"Yes,  pretend.  I  used  to  pretend  a  lot  at  one  time, 
Felisi.  It  was  my  living."  Missus  Catoni  lit  one  of 
her  toy  cigarettes  and  leant  back  in  the  chair.  She 
was  altogether  beautiful,  Felisi  thought,  with  her  white 
hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  the  folds  of  a  softly 
tinted  kimono  falling  about  her,  and  the  toy  cigarette 
moving  up  and  down  between  her  lips  as  she  talked. 
She  was  like  white  coral  draped  with  tinted  weed,  deep 
down  in  a  rock  pool. 

"I've  pretended  such  a  lot,"  she  went  on  presently, 
more  to  herself  than  to  the  girl  squatting  at  her  feet, 
"that  I'm  positively  frightened  when  I  have  to  do  some- 
thing real." 

She  turned  in  her  chair  and  seemed  to  see  Felisi  for 
the  first  time. 


THE  PRETENDERS  55 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  slowly,  with  a  reminiscent 
light  in  her  dark  eyes,  "I  once  had  to  pretend  to  be 
somebody  else  every  evening  for  two  whole  years.  It 
was  a  wonderful  run,  Felisi,  and  all  because  I  pretended 
so  well." 

Missus  Catoni  smiled,  as  though  at  some  pleasant 
memory,  while  Felisi  remained  silent  and  still.  She 
knew  how  to  listen.  And  presently  the  other  went 
on — 

"Every  evening  it  was  the  same.  All  sorts  of  car- 
riages drove  up  to  a  very  big  house  that  was  covered 
with  coloured  lights,  and  people  went  inside — hundreds 
of  them.  They  had  to  sit  for  a  little  time  listening  to 
music  or  talking — most  of  them  talked — in  front  of  a 
big  curtain.  Then  the  curtain  went  up,  and  there  was 
I  on  the  stage,  dressed  up  like  somebody  else.  All  the 
time  they  had  been  coming  into  the  house  and  sitting 
listening  to  the  music,  I  had  been  in  a  little  room  down- 
stairs, putting  on  clothes,  and  painting  myself  to  look 
like  somebody  else,  and  now,  there  I  was." 

It  was  as  though  the  footlights  shone  again  on  Missus 
Catoni.  There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes  that  Felisi  had 
never  seen  before. 

"All  alone?"  prompted  the  audience. 

"No,  there  were  others  there,  all  pretending.  We 
pretended  that  we  were  afraid,  and  that  we  were  brave, 
that  we  were  poor  and  rich,  that  we  hated,  and  we 
loved,  and  we  pretended  so  well  that  the  people  sitting 
in  front  laughed  with  us  and  cried  with  us,  sometimes 
forgot  that  they  were  sitting  in  a  big  house  covered 
with  lights,  and  that  we  were  only  pretending.  There 


56  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

would  be  quite  a  long  silence  after  the  curtain  came 
down,  and  then  the  big  house  would  ring  with  the  clap- 
ping of  hands,  and  we  knew  that  we  had  pretended 
well." 

Missus  Catoni  leant  back  in  the  chair  and  sent  thin 
ribbons  of  smoke  to  hover  on  the  still  air  above  her 
head.  She  was  looking  through  and  beyond  the  rib- 
bons of  smoke. 

"It  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world,  Felisi," 
she  said  slowly,  and  added  a  moment  later,  "except 
one." 

"An*  him?"  Felisi  inquired. 

Missus  Catoni  looked  down  at  her  and  smiled. 

"You  don't  miss  much,  do  you,  child?"  she  said  in  a 
changed  voice.  "I  can't  tell  you  about  'him'  easily, 
and,  besides,  you'll  know  all  about  him  one  day,  I  ex- 
pect." 

But  Felisi  was  not  appeased.  Something  was  trou- 
bling her,  as  Missus  Catoni  saw  by  her  puckered  fore- 
head, and  at  last  it  found  utterance. 

"Why  you  no  go  on  plenty  more  big  house,  plenty 
more  pretend?" 

"I  met  Mr.  Caton,"  said  his  wife,  a  whimsical  smile 
hovering  about  her  mouth  and  eyes  as  she  looked  down 
on  Felisi. 

"An'  Missi  Catoni,  him  no  like  pretend?" 

Missus  Catoni  laughed  outright. 

"If  you're  not  the  quaintest  thing,  Felisi!"  she  said. 
"And  you've  hit  the  nail  right  on  the  very  head.  'Missi 
Catoni,  him  no  like  pretend'!"  She  laughed  again. 
"You  see,"  she  explained,  "people  who  can't  pretend 


THE  PRETENDERS  57 

themselves,  and  don't  understand  it,  are  often  very  nice 
—the  nicest  sort  of  people  sometimes,  I  think — but 
they  don't  like  others  who  can  pretend — especially  their 
wives — to  do  it  for  a  living.  It — oh,  dear,  oh,  dear, 
what  am  I  talking  to  you  about,  Felisi?  That  will  do 
now;  you  may  go." 

Felisi  went,  but  still  with  a  puckered  brow.  At  the 
door  she  turned  back. 

"You  no  scotty?"1  she  said,  with  drooping  head. 

Missus  Catoni  was  lying  on  the  bed.  "Good  gra- 
cious, no,  child !  What  ever  makes  you  think  that?  It's 
only  that  I  find  myself  telling  you  things  that  I  don't 
always  tell  myself.  It's  your  eyes,  I  think. 

"Me  pretend!"  she  announced  eagerly,  and  com- 
menced to  sway  and  gesture  and  drone  the  meke  of  the 
two  wood-pigeons,  while  Missus  Catoni  watched  and 
applauded  from  the  bed. 

They  had  much  in  common,  these  two. 

A  few  days  later  Missus  Catoni  opened  a  letter  at  the 
breakfast  table,  and  when  she  had  read,  the  colour 
surged  to  her  face.  She  waited  until  it  had  subsided, 
then  spoke  in  her  usual  subdued  tone  of  voice. 

"Jack,  Tony  Redgrave  is  in  Suva." 

Missi  Catoni  looked  up  and  blinked  as  usual. 

"Tony  Redgrave?"  he  repeated  dully. 

"Yes,  you  remember — he  was  leading  man  with  me 
at  the  Olympic." 

Missi  Catoni  winced,  then  smiled  his  kindly  smile. 

"Really?"  he  said.  "What  on  earth  is  he  doing  in 
this  part  of  the  world?" 

Native  parlance  for  angry. 


58  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"He's  just  finished  his  Australian  tour,  and  stopped 
off  at  Suva  on  his  way  to  San  Francisco." 

"Jove!"  exclaimed  Missi  Catoni,  with  the  first  show 
of  enthusiasm  Felisi  had  seen  him  display.  "That'll 
brighten  things  up  for  you  a  bit,  Joan.  I'll  fetch  him 
out  this  afternoon." 

"To  stay?" 

Missus  Catoni  was  playing  with  the  sugar-tongs. 

"That's  as  you  like,  dear.  How  long  is  he  stopping 
over  for?" 

"Until  the  next  boat — about  two  weeks." 

"Then  he  must  stop  here,"  said  Missi  Catoni  with 
finality. 

A  room  was  prepared  at  once.  A  new  mosquito 
bar  was  hung,  and  the  most  beautiful  sheets  spread  on 
the  bed.  Missus  Catoni  flitted  about  the  place  like  a 
white  butterfly,  giving  a  touch  here  and  there.  A 
what-not  with  ten  shelves  was  placed  in  a  corner,  and 
Felisi  longed  to  ask  what  it  was  for,  until  Missus  Catoni 
told  her  without  asking. 

"He  is  very  fond  of  nice  boots,"  she  told  Felisi; 
"you  will  see  the  most  beautiful  boots  in  the  world 
presently." 

"Missi  Redgravie,  him  big  fellah?"  Felisi  inquired, 
and  Missus  Catoni  went  off  into  peals  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  I  must  tell  him  that!"  she  cried.  "Felisi, 
you're  a  gem!  Yes,  Missi  Redgravie  is  a  big  fellah  in 
his  own  way." 

And  that  was  all  Felisi  heard  about  him  until  he  ap- 
peared— or,  rather,  made  his  entry — at  three  o'clock 
that  afternoon.  He  was  tall  and  slim,  and  wore  a  more 


THE  PRETENDERS  59 

i 
beautiful  white  flannel  suit  and  white  felt  hat  than 

Felisi  had  ever  seen,  even  on  the  wharf  at  Levuka.  His 
hair  shone  like  a  calm  sea  at  night.  There  was  a  knife- 
like  crease  down  his  trousers,  which  terminated  in  the 
wonderful  boots.  These  were  long  and  square-toed,  and 
the  rich  brown  colour  of  the  sitting-room  table. 

Felisi  saw  him  coming  down  the  path  from  the  launch, 
followed  by  Missi  Catoni's  ungainly  figure  and  a  couple 
of  house-boys  carrying  suitcases  that  were  the  same 
colour  as  his  boots.  She  saw  him  between  the  window 
curtains  of  Missus  Catoni's  bedroom,  and  when  she 
turned  from  the  enchanting  vision,  her  mistress  was 
standing  at  the  dressing  table,  with  the  little  top  left- 
hand  drawer  open,  and  her  hand  hovering  over  it.  In 
that  drawer  Felisi  had  once  seen  a  pot  of  red  stuff,  and 
wondered  what  it  was  for,  as  Missus  Catoni  had  never 
used  it.  Was  the  mystery  to  be  solved?  Evidently 
not,  for  she  laughed — a  little  nervous  laugh — and  shut 
the  drawer  with  a  snap. 

A  moment  later  she  was  on  the  veranda. 

"Joan,"  said  a  well-modulated  voice,  "this  is  most 
awfully  good  of  you!"  ( 

After  that  the  voices  mingled,  and  Felisi  busied  her- 
self with  other  matters. 

They  had  tea  on  the  veranda — a  very  pleasant  tea, 
by  the  sounds  that  floated  in  through  the  open  windows. 
Even  Missi  Catoni  laughed  as  Felisi  had  never  heard 
him  laugh,  and  the  well-modulated  voice  droned  on. 
"Between  the  laughs  came  scraps  of  conversation  that 
fascinated  Felisi.  It  was  like  a  puzzle  that  needed 
fitting  together. 


60  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"You  may  as  well  know  your  nom  de  Rena  River, 
Tony;  it's  Redgravie,  nothing  less — you  see,  their  own 
words  all  end  with  a  vowel.  I  am  Missus  Catoni,  so 
you  mustn't  mind.  .  .  .  The  quaintest  thing;  I'll 
show  you  her  later  on." 

"I  hope  you  won't  spoil  her,  Joan" — this  from  Missi 
Catoni. 

"Spoil  her,  my  dear!  She  knows  more  than  you  or 
I,  or  Tony,  here,  will  ever  learn.  Sometimes  her  wis- 
dom almost  frightens  me." 

A  little  later  Missi  Catoni  went  away.  Felisi  con- 
jured a  mental  picture  of  his  ungainly  figure  going  up 
the  path  to  the  bush-house,  with  a  piece  of  bass  hanging 
out  of  one  pocket. 

"Oh,  yes,"  Missus  Catoni  laughed  softly.  "There's 
going  to  be  a  Corona  Catoni  before  long." 

"And  you?  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  saying  it, 
Joan,  but  you're  looking  most  awfully  ill." 

"Sorry  I  don't  suit." 

"No,  but  honestly,  how  long  is  it?" 

"Three  years." 

"Three  years — here?" 

"Yes.     We're  going  home  for  good  soon." 

"But — well,  the  sooner  the  better.  Do  you  know,  I 
hardly  recognized  you  this  afternoon;  it  was  the  shock 
of  my  life." 

"You've  had  so  many  shocks,  haven't  you,  Tony? 
You  hid  your  emotions  very  well." 

"But  you  at  the  Olympic,  and  you  here — good  heav- 
ens!" 

"You  needn't  be  tragic,  Tony;  I  assure  you  there's 


THE  PRETENDERS  61 

no  need.  Besides,  you  hardly  ever  saw  me  out  of  my 
make-up." 

"It  was  a  great  time."  The  well-modulated  voice 
became  reminiscent.  "There's  never  been  anything 
like  it  since." 

"How  did  Nina  Trueman  turn  out?" 

A  cane  chair  scraped  on  the  floor. 

"Frost!  Hard  and  nipping.  Fell  to  pieces  .  .  . 
petered  out  after  you  left." 

"And  I  can't  help  feeling  glad,  even  here.  Isn't  it 
horrid?" 

"Not  a  bit.     Oh,  lor,  Joan!" 

"Tell  me  about  yourself.  How  did  you  find  Aus- 
tralia?" 

"Top-hole.  Big  houses  everywhere,  but  they're 
mighty  hard  to  please.  I  rather  like  it;  it  means  when 
you  have  got  them,  you've  done  something.  Nothing 
will  induce  them  to  book  in  advance,  though.  Empty 
house  one  minute  and  crammed  to  the  ceiling  the  next. 
It's  rather  wearing  .  .  .  'Richard  Wentworth* 
fetched  'em,  though,  and  Fred  Walton  in  'The  Permit.' 
Never  worked  so  hard  in  my  life." 

"This  will  rest  you  .  .  .  Boy,  whisky  and 
sparklet." 

"Yes,  this  will  rest  me,  if  nothing  would.  By  the 
way,  Caton  doesn't  approve,  does  he?" 

"Not  for  me.  Otherwise  he  simply  takes  no  interest, 
that's  all." 

"Funny,"  mused  the  well-modulated  voice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     Why  should  he?" 

"Well " 


62  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"We  do  rather  insist  on  it — I  mean  our  profession — 
don't  we?" 

"Ha,  ha!     So  you're  going  over?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I  love  it  as  much  as  ever;  it's  part  of 
me." 

"The  bigger  part?" 

"No,  not  the  bigger  part.  I'm  sorry.  Let's  go  for  a 
stroll.  You  haven't  seen  the  orchids." 

"Orchids!"  The  well-modulated  voice  grew  fainter 
as  it  moved  down  the  veranda  steps  and  out  on  to  the 
pathway.  "Tell  me  a  few,  for  Heaven's  sake — the 
Corello  Mysterioso  or  Glorioso,  or  something.  I  must 
appear  intelligent." 

Missus  Catoni  laughed. 
,     "There's  no  need  whatever " 

Then  their  voices  passed  out  of  range,  and  Felisi  was 
left  to  fit  her  puzzle  together. 

For  the  next  week  she  had  little  to  do.  Missus  Ca- 
toni spent  nearly  all  her  time  with  Missi  Redgravie. 
Occasionally  Felisi  used  to  go  into  the  guest's  bedroom 
and  stand  enthralled  before  the  what-not  of  boots. 
There  were  ten  pairs  of  them,  each  perfect  in  its  own 
way. 

One  evening — Missus  Catoni  had  been  playing  the 
piano  under  the  subdued  pink  light  of  the  standard 
lamp,  and  Missi  Redgravie  was  standing  in  the  open 
doorway,  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  river — he  turned 
and  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time  with  a  frown  on  his 
forehead.  Suddenly  an  eager  light  came  into  his  eyes, 
and  he  strode  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Drawing-room   scene — second  act,"   he   said.     "I 


THE  PRETENDERS  63 

come  down  O.  P."  He  strolled  toward  the  piano, 
and  a  pleading  note  came  into  his  well-modulated  voice. 
"Won't  you  sing,  Di?" 

And  although  Missus  Catoni's  name  was  not  "Di," 
she  looked  up  as  she  played,  and  said  very  softly, 
"For  you,  or  the  others?" 

"For  me." 

She  sang,  but  in  the  middle  of  it  Missi  Redgravie  held 
up  his  hand.  The  music  ceased,  and  they  stood  side  by 
side,  a  look  of  terrible  fear  on  their  faces,  and  their  eyes 
turned  toward  the  door.  So  great  was  their  fear  that 
Felisi,  who  had  been  squatting  on  the  veranda,  sew- 
ing, looked  about  her  into  the  moonlit  night  to  see  who 
was  there. 

"He's  coming ! "  said  Missi  Redgravie,  in  an  awestruck 
voice. 

"  Who — Paul  ?  "  whispered  Missus  Catoni.  Her  hand 
was  on  his  sleeve. 

"No,  Desmond.     I  can  hear  him  limping — limping!" 

"You're  dreaming."  She  had  clutched  his  arm  now, 
and  her  face  was  piteously  upturned  to  his.  Felisi 
longed  to  go  and  comfort  her.  "  You  must  be  dreaming. 
He- 

"No,  I  am  not  dreaming."  Missi  Redgravie  pro- 
nounced this  in  a  firm  voice.  He  seemed  to  have 
pulled  himself  together  for  a  supreme  effort.  He  looked 
brave,  wonderfully  brave.  "I  shall  go  and  meet  him." 

"No,  no!"  Missus  Catoni  held  him  fast.  "You  can- 
not go,  Tom!" 

Now,  Felisi  knew  that  Missi  Redgravie's  name  was 
not  Tom,  and  for  her  the  spell  was  broken.  They  were 


64  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

pretending,  even  as  Missus  Catoni  had  said.  But  what 
pretending!  This,  then,  was  what  they  did  in  the  big 
house  covered  with  lights.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Felisi 
was  seeing  what  the  world  would  have  given  a  fortune 
to  see — Joan  Trevor  acting. 

And  they  went  on  to  the  very  end,  to  where  the  man 
called  Tom  took  her  in  his  arms.  Then  Missus  Catoni 
flung  away  from  him  with  a  happy  little  laugh  and  sub- 
sided on  to  the  sofa. 

"Isn't  it  extraordinary  how  it  all  comes  back?"  she 
said,  in  a  changed  voice. 

"  Comes  back ! "  Missi  Redgravie  stood  looking  down 
on  her.  "It's  never  left  you,"  he  said  gravely. 

"But  every  word,  like  that.  I  never  fluffed  once. 
It  must  be  part  of  one.  Oh,  it's  queer!"  She  passed 
her  hand  over  her  eyes  with  a  weary  little  gesture. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "the  bigger  part." 

She  smiled  wistfully,  and  shook  her  head  slowly  but 
firmly. 

It  was  on  just  such  an  evening  as  this,  with  the  trop- 
ical moonlight  flooding  the  Rena  River,  that  they  pre- 
tended again. 

Missi  Catoni  had  gone  on  an  orchid-hunting  expedi- 
tion into  the  interior  the  day  before,  and  Felisi  was 
squatting  on  the  veranda  mats,  sewing.  They  were 
just  as  they  had  been — Missus  Catoni  playing  the  piano, 
and  Missi  Redgravie  looking  out  at  the  moonlit  river. 
The  stage  was  set.  Felisi  longed  for  them  to  pretend, 
and  they  did,  but  it  was  all  much  more  subdued  than 
it  had  been  before,  and  somehow  it  made  it  all  the  more 
natural. 


THE  PRETENDERS  65 

Presently  Missi  Redgravie  crossed  the  room  and  stood 
beside  Missus  Catoni  as  she  played.  They  talked  so 
quietly  that  Felisi  could  not  hear  them  for  a  time.  Then 
the  music  trailed  away  and  left  a  voice,  a  well-modu- 
lated voice,  talking  quite  clearly. 

"...  This  can't  go  on,  Joan!"  They  called 
each  other  by  their  proper  names  this  time. 

"It's  my  life,  Tony,"  Missus  Catoni  answered  him 
quietly. 

"But  you  can't  tell  me  that  it  is  going  on." 

She  turned  on  the  piano  stool  and  looked  at  him,  and 
kept  looking. 

"It's  the  life  I  chose,"  she  said. 

"It's  death,"  he  told  her;  "you're  dying  on  your  feet, 
Joan.  This  is  no  country  for  a  white  woman.  You 
know  it.  He  knows  it,"  he  added  bitterly.  "Why, 
people  don't  bring  their  dogs  here,  for  fear  of  losing 
them!  I — I  can't  stand  by  and  see  it!" 

"You  needn't.  I  made  my  choice.  I  don't  regret 
it." 

"You  can't  tell  me  that  you're  happy — here?" 

"I  can." 

"You're  making  yourself  say  that.  You  don't  be- 
lieve it.  Of  all  the  ingrained,  blind  selfishness — 

"Hush!" 

"No,  I  mean  it." 

"I  know  you  mean  it,  but  you  don't  understand." 

"Understand!  The  pity  of  it — the  waste  of  it!  Oh, 
Joan,  Joan!"  His  hands  had  seized  hers.  She  sat 
quite  still,  looking  at  him  with  her  dark  eyes.  It  was 
wonderful. 


66  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"And  you  left  in  the  middle  of  it  all!  There's  the 
other  half — the  better  half — waiting  for  you,  if  you  will 
only  come  back." 

Missus  Catoni's  hands  were  suddenly  snatched  from 
his,  and  she  stood  up.  Her  breath  was  coming  fast. 
The  man  stood  before  her. 

"It  can  all  be  arranged.  This  is  madness — pure 
madness !  No  one  would  ask  it  of  you ! " 

She  stared  at  him  as  though  fascinated. 

"You — don't — understand,"  she  said,  like  one  in  a 
trance;  "you  could  never — understand." 

"There's only  one  thing  I  understand,"  he  answered. 

They  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment;  then  Missus 
Catoni,  who  faced  the  veranda  door,  gave  a  low  cry. 
Missi  Catoni  stood  on  the  threshold,  looking  in,  but  he 
saw  nothing.  A  native  boy  led  him  by  the  hand.  They 
had  come  so  quietly  that  Felisi,  engrossed  in  the  pre- 
tending, had  not  heard  them.  The  native  boy  led  him 
forward  into  the  room,  and  his  disengaged  hand  swept 
the  air  until  it  met  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  he  sank  into 
it. 

"Joan,"  he  called,  "Joan,"  and  laughed  his  deep 
laugh. 

Missus  Catoni  crossed  the  room  and  sank  on  her 
knees,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  in  a  strange  voice,  "Jack,  what  has 
happened?  Tell  me!" 

Again  he  laughed,  and  his  hand  caressed  her  hair. 

"Bit  of  moon  blindness,  my  dear,'*  he  said  in  his 
slow,  cheerful  voice.  "Don't  you  worry.  I  shall  be 
all  right  in  a  few  days — a  week  at  most.  Often  hap- 


THE  PRETENDERS  67 

pens  here,  you  know,  but  only  to  fools.  I  slept  last 
night  in  the  bush,  without  cover,  and  it  must  have 
worked  round  until  it  fell  on  me.  In  the  shade  when  I 
fell  asleep.  Those  confounded  boys  never  woke  me, 
and — and  here  I  am.  Most  extraordinary  sensation. 
Just  hand  me  a  cigar,  will  you?  .  .  .  Thanks,  my 
dear.  Where's  Redgrave?" 

Missi  Redgravie  came  round  in  front  of  the  chair. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  good!  Here's  a  pretty  pickle,  Redgrave.  Nice 
sort  of  host,  eh?  Leaves  his  guest  for  two  days  and 
comes  back  blind!  Ha,  ha!" 

"Whisky  and  sparklet?"  suggested  Missi  Redgravie. 

"Ah,  thanks.  But  I've  got  it,  Joan!"  He  leant 
forward,  and  his  sightless  eyes  gleamed.  "I've  got  it!" 

"The  Corona  Catoni?"  Missus  Catoni's  face  lit  up 
on  the  instant. 

"Nothing  less,  my  dear.  And  it's — it's But  I 

won't  bore  you  about  that.  What  will  interest  you 
most  is  that  we're  going  home.  Yes,  I've  been  think- 
ing things  over  while — while  I've  been  like  this,  and  this 
is  an  infernal  country;  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  How 
you've  stood  it,  I  don't  know.  Do  you,  Redgrave?" 

"No,"  said  Missi  Redgravie. 

"Besides,  there's  the  Corona  Catoni."  Missi  Catoni's 
tongue  lingered  over  the  words  as  though  he  loved  them. 
"So  we're  going  home — for  good.  Hope  you'll  come 
and  see  us,  Redgrave." 

"Thanks,"  said  Missi  Redgravie,  "I  should  be 
charmed." 

"And  now  I've  got  to  get  to  bed  somehow."     Missus 


68  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Catoni  led  him  toward  his  bedroom  door.  "Steady, 
old  girl — that's  better!  Good-night,  Redgrave!  Hope 
you'll  excuse  me." 

"Certainly!     Good-night!"  said  Missi  Redgravie. 

He  left  that  evening. 

There  would  be  no  more  pretending.  Felisi  was 
sorry.  It  had  been  so  wonderful  that  it  was  almost  im- 
possible to  tell  where  the  pretending  ended  and  the 
reality  began. 

Felisi  often  puckers  her  brow  over  it. 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER 

THE  imitation  pink  coral  factory  was  situated 
high  up  on  a  cliff  about  a  mile  along  the  coast 
from  Levuka. 

Those  who  associate  the  word  "factory"  with  a  men- 
tal picture  of  towering  chimneys  belching  black  smoke, 
the  hum  of  machinery,  and  streams  of  pale-faced  men 
and  women  hurrying  to  work  with  papier  mdchS  dis- 
patch cases  of  lunch  in  their  hands,  will  be  grievously 
disappointed,  because  in  this  particular  instance  the 
factory  belonged  to  Felisi  of  Luana,  and,  like  its  inven- 
tor, the  process  of  production  was  as  simple  as  it  was 
effective. 

You  merely  go  out  to  the  reef  at  low  tide,  collect  as 
many  of  the  myriad  white  coral  fronds  from  the  rock 
pools  as  you  can  comfortably  carry  in  a  reed  basket, 
and  take  it  on  your  head  up  to  the  factory.  There  you 
will  find  a  miniature  waterfall  gushing  down  the  rocks 
behind  Jimmie's  house,  and  after  placing  the  coral 
fronds  under  the  fresh  water — which,  of  course,  kills  the 
poor  little  coral  polyp  and  turns  his  limy,  grayish-green 
house  into  a  snow-white  thing  of  beauty — you  squat  in 
the  sun,  smoking  and  listening  to  Jimmie's  latest  ef- 
fusion, declaimed  in  rolling  accents  to  the  four  winds  of 
the  Pacific  Ocean  before  he  trades  it  at  the  nearest  store 
for  a  tin  of  kerosene  or  bottle  of  whisky. 


70  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

This  may  take  an  hour,  and  it  may  take  longer,  but  at 
the  end  of  it  you  mix  a  packet  of  a  popular  dye  in  a 
bucket  of  water  and  allow  the  snow-white  coral  to  soak 
in  it.  This  turns  it  pink — pink  all  through,  because 
coral  is  absorbent — and  you  sell  it  to  tourists  on  Levuka 
wharf  in  very  small  quantities  and  for  fabulous  sums, 
because  pink  coral  is  scarce. 

Yes,  Felisi  had  returned  to  coral  selling  on  the  wharf. 
The  white  people  on  the  Rena  River,  where  she  had 
been  "something  in  the  nature  of  a  lady's  maid,"  had 
gone  "home,"  and  there  was  still  a  goodly  number  of 
gold  discs  to  be  collected  by  Felisi  and  her  female  rela- 
tions before  a  certain  wonderful  boat  became  her 
father's  property. 

Felisi  was  far  from  pleased  at  the  change  of  employ- 
ment. For  an  ardent  student  of  the  white  man  and  his 
ways,  the  tourists  on  the  wharf,  not  to  mention  a  nag- 
ging aunt  at  home,  offered  a  poor  substitute  for  the 
freedom  of  movement  and  observation  in  a  white  house- 
hold. To  be  sure,  there  was  Jimmie.  But  then  there 
was  always  Jimmie;  he  was  as  much  a  part  of  Levuka 
as  the  beach  itself,  and  he  offered  no  new  problem  to 
puzzle  and  enthral. 

To  Felisi,  as  to  all  natives  of  "The  Islands  of  the 
Blessed,"  there  are  only  two  kinds  of  white  men — those 
who  belong  and  those  who  do  not  belong.  The  former 
variety  wears  soiled  ducks  and  a  battered  pith  helmet, 
drinks  rather  more  than  the  climate  allows,  understands 
the  natives,  and  seems  as  happy  and  contented  as  the 
day  is  long,  provided  he  has  tobacco,  whisky,  bed,  and 
friends.  The  other  wears  clean  starched  ducks  with  a 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER         71 

knife-like  crease  down  the  front  of  the  trousers — which, 
by  the  way,  are  always  turned  up  at  the  bottom — a 
magnificent  solar  topee,  and  an  art-coloured  tie.  He 
knows  nothing  of  the  native,  and  cares  less,  and  he 
carries  his  troubles  with  him  out  of  the  world  into  the 
Islands,  which  results  in  his  having  a  careworn  ap- 
pearance and  always  being  in  a  hurry. 

Then  there  is  the  super  white  man — he  of  speck- 
less  white  flannel  and  white  felt  hat — but  Felisi  knew 
little  of  him,  except  that  on  the  wharf  he  and  his 
women  folk  were  the  easiest  prey  to  imitation  pink 
coral. 

Jimmie  belonged  to  the  first  of  this  category,  and  for 
this  reason  Felisi  understood  and  loved  the  old  man,  as 
she  understood  and  loved  the  rainbow-tinted  fish  in  a 
rock  pool.  Moreover,  his  tin  bucket  and  miniature 
waterfall  were  exceedingly  useful. 

The  dyeing  process  was  in  full  swing  when  he  caught 
sight  of  her  this  morning,  on  her  return  from  the  Rena 
River,  and  he  welcomed  her  as  though  she  had  never 
been  absent. 

"Hi,  Felisi!"  he  bellowed,  advancing  on  her  with  a 
sheet  of  crumpled  paper  fluttering  from  his  hand,  and 
the  light  of  inspiration  flashing  in  his  eye.  "If  this 
doesn't  get  'em,  nothing  will.  It's  a  peach,  a  rip- 
snorter,  a —  -  Listen  to  this!" 

Jimmie  had  been  a  large  man.  His  frame  was  still 
large,  especially  the  feet,  but  he  had  lost  flesh.  He 
occasionally  ate,  but  what  he  really  lived  on  was  tobacco 
and  whisky,  and  perhaps  this  had  something  to  do  with 
his  woeful  skinniness.  He  still  had  a  well-shaped  head 


72  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

and  remarkable  hands.  Felisi  had  often  watched  these 
hands  of  Jimmie's  and  marvelled  at  their  shapeliness. 
Apart  from  them  and  his  head,  he  was  a  scarecrow.  His 
hair  and  beard  were  like  gray  birds'  nests,  and  his 
clothes — scanty  enough,  in  all  conscience — seemed  to 
touch  him  nowhere  but  at  the  shoulders. 

He  was  sitting  now  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff — his 
favourite  seat — with  his  enormous  feet  dangling  over 
the  edge,  and  one  shapely  hand  upraised  as  though  in 
exhortation,  as  he  gave  a  gentle  southeast  Trade  the 
benefit  of  the  following  in  a  rolling  baritone — 

"Oh,  wondrous  Isle  of  Ovalau, 

How  oft  I  ponder  on  thy  charms ! 
Naught  can  compare  with  thee,  I  vow, 

Thy  green,  green  hills  and  nodding  palms! 

Beautiful,  you  know,"  he  added,  with  an  air  of  pardon- 
able pride,  "really,  beautiful  that.  You  notice,  it 
rolls — literally  rolls  off  the  tongue,  and  the  sentiment's 
sound — perfectly  sound." 

He  was  not  addressing  Felisi,  but  the  proprietress  of 
the  imitation  pink  coral  factory  knew  this  perfectly  well, 
and  did  not  resent  it  in  the  least.  It  was  a  way  of 
Jimmie's.  She  represented  a  figure-head  at  which 
he  could  hurl  his  rhetoric  without  fear  of  criticism — 
a  useful  article  for  a  poet  to  have  on  occasions.  But 
this  morning  he  was  not  aware  that  Felisi  had 
only  just  relinquished  a  position  in  a  white  household, 
where  her  English  vocabulary  had  been  greatly  aug- 
mented. 

"Why  you  say  'green,  green'?"  she  demanded,  lifting 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    73 

a  frond  of  coral  out  of  the  dye  and  placing  it  in  the  sun 
to  dry. 

Jimmie  started  visibly,  then  remembered  he  was  on 
the  cliff,  and  swung  himself  into  safety.  The  figure-head 
had  spoken! 

"Aha,"  he  warned,  when  he  had  recovered  from  the 
sjx>ck,  and  wagging  an  attenuated  finger  at  Felisi,  *'the 
little  knowledge  that  is  a  dangerous  thing!  And  not  so 
slow,  either,"  he  added  reflectively  "I'm  not  sure 
that  I  like  'green,  green'  myself.  Permissible,  entirely 
permissible,  but  cheap."  He  looked  up  with  distress 
written  plainly  on  the  yellow  parchment  of  his  face. 
"You  have  put  your  finger  on  the  weak  spot,  my  dear." 

He  looked  so  unlike  his  usual  cheerful  self  at  that 
moment  that,  although  Felisi  appreciated  the  compli- 
ment, she  was  sorry  she  had  spoken. 

"There  have  to  be  two  words  there,"  he  mused; 
"one  feels  that — metre,  but  suitable  adjectives  were 
always  my  weak  point.  Vivid!  No,  two  syllables. 
Pale!  No,  that  would  not  be  painting  a  true  picture. 
Pure!  Rotten!"  Jimmie  squirmed  in  the  grass  and 
cast  appealing  eyes  to  heaven. 

"Big,"  suggested  Felisi. 

Jimmy  became  suddenly  still,  and  frowned,  then 
smiled. 

"Tall,"  he  said,  lingering  over  the  word  as  if  it 
pleased  him. 

"Thy  tall  green  hills  and  nodding  palms." 

"You  did  that,  Felisi,"  he  told  her,  as  though  ac- 
quainting her  of  a  self-accomplished  miracle.  "And 
now  we  come  to  the  point — a  fall  from  Pegasus,  I 


74  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

admit,  but  a  necessary  fall."     The  hand  was  again  up- 
raised. 

"Yet  stop 

(And  here  is  where  the  attention  is  at  once  arrested. 
Parsons  can't  help  seeing  that) 

"Yet  stop!    There  is  one  other  feast 

Afforded  by  this  isle  afar, 
And  that  is  Boulton's  store  down  East, 
Where  dwells  the  only  real  cigar. 

So  mild  it  is,  so  succulent 
It  wafts " 

Entirely  by  accident  Felisi  dropped  a  frond  of  coral 
into  the  dye.  It  made  a  sickening  splash,  and  Jimmie 
stopped  like  a  clock  with  a  broken  mainspring.  He 
said  nothing — what  was  there  to  say? — but  his  pained 
look  went  to  Felisi's  heart. 

"Me  sorry,  Jimmie,"  she  pleaded,  squatting  in  the 
grass  before  him;  "you  no  stop,  please." 

"If  you're  ready,"  said  Jimmie,  with  dignity,  "we'll 
go  down  and  sell  our  produce." 

They  descended  the  red  earth  track  together,  Felisi 
with  a  light  step  and  a  basket  of  coral  on  her  head, 
Jimmie  with  his  loose-jointed  shuffle  and  a  scrap  of 
paper  neatly  folded  in  his  pocket.  This  scrap  of  paper 
was  the  only  thing  in  life  that  Jimmie  was  neat  about. 

He  chuckled  as  they  crossed  the  bridge  and  turned 
on  to  the  beach. 

"We're  a  couple  of  impostors,  Felisi,"  he  told  her,  hi 
a  confidential  undertone. 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    75 

"Impostors,"  mimicked  Felisi. 

"Yes,  pretenders.  Your  coral  isn't  real.  My  poem 
isn't  real." 

"Poem  no  real?"  she  queried,  in  genuine  surprise. 

"No,  it  can't  be.  It's  too  easy.  You  just  put  down 
a  word — coral,  anything — then  think  of  a  word  that 
rhymes  with  it — moral,  anything — and  fill  in  the  rest  how 
you  like.  It's  too  easy;  but  I  mustn't  let  'em  know  it," 
he  chuckled.  "Oh,  dear,  no — any  more  than  you  must 
let  'em  know  how  you  make  pink  coral." 

They  laughed  together  in  the  sunlight,  a  laugh  of 
mutual  understanding. 

Felisi  felt  a  certain  sense  of  proprietorship  in  Jimmie's 
poem.  Had  she  not  helped  to  supply  a  word — a  very 
vital  word?  She  determined  to  see  it  sold.  The  basket 
of  coral  was  left  with  the  nagging  aunt,  and  Felisi  fol- 
lowed Jimmie  into  Parsons 's  store.  She  wondered, 
as  she  threaded  her  way  through  the  stacks  of  kerosene, 
tins,  rope,  leaf  tobacco,  and  coloured  shirts,  why  he  had 
come  to  Parsons's  when  the  poem  distinctly  said 
"Boulton's,"  but  it  was  soon  made  apparent. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Parsons,"  was  Jimmie's  greet- 
ing, and  he  said  it  as  though  he  meant  it,  as  though  it 
were  an  entirely  original  remark. 

"Morning,  Jim." 

Missi  Parsonic  was  a  busy  man.  At  eighty  degrees 
in  the  shade,  without  a  customer  in  sight,  and  as  much 
chance  of  doing  business  as  a  derelict  whaler,  he  was 
always  busy.  He  had  learnt  his  methods  in  America, 
and  they  had  answered,  if  the  prosperity  of  his  store 
went  for  anything.  With  garters  on  his  sleeves,  and  an 


76  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

intent  expression  on  his  hatchet  face,  he  was  sorting 
shirts  at  the  moment;  but  there  was  an  open  tin  of  mixed 
biscuits  on  the  counter,  and  from  this  Jimmie  daintily 
extracted  samples  from  time  to  time,  and  ate  them  with 
the  air  of  a  connoisseur. 

"An  uncommonly  fine  morning,  for  the  hurricane 
season,"  remarked  Jimmie.  "This  is  a  much-maligned 
country,  Mr.  Parsons.  Hurricane  season,  indeed!" 
His  indignation  had  the  effect  of  accelerating  the  con- 
sumption of  biscuits.  "They  should  go  to  the  Malay 
States  if  they  want  to  see  hurricanes.  Ours  are  a 
mere  zephyr — zephyr,  sir,  in  comparison."  At  the 
end  of  the  counter  were  stacked  packets  of  safety 
matches  and  tins  of  tobacco.  Jimmie  sidled  along  the 
counter,  talking  as  he  went,  and  appropriated  one 
of  each  with  the  utmost  delicacy  and  frankness.  Missi 
Parsonic  had  disapproved,  but  slowly  he  had  given 
way,  finding  it  better  to  conform  to  old-established 
institutions  than  to  get  himself  disliked — even  by 
Jimmie. 

His  "shopping"  completed,  and  the  two  pockets 
of  his  disreputable  jacket  bulging  generously,  Jimmie 
took  a  half  seat  by  the  side  of  the  counter,  and 
produced  the  neatly  folded  paper.  He  cleared  his 
throat. 

"I  have  here,"  he  said  impressively,  tapping  the  paper 
with  his  attenuated  forefinger,  "I  have  here  something 
that  will  interest  you,  Mr.  Parsons" — Missi  Parsonic 
regarded  Jimmie  without  emotion — "a  little  thing  that 
I  must  confess  gave  me  considerable  trouble.  But  I 
think  it's  worth  it.  It  will  look  well  in  the  Herald — in 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    77 

block  type,  you  know,  with  good  spacing — well,  like 
Boulton's  of  last  week." 

"Boulton's?"  queried  Missi  Parsonic,  with  a  faint 
frown. 

"Yes,  I  think  he'll  like  this  one,  don't  you — as  a  man 
of  judgment — Mr.  Parsons?" 

He  read  the  poem  from  beginning  to  end,  still  in  the 
rolling  baritone,  still  with  the  shapely  hand  upraised. 
But  Missi  Parsonic  seemed  quite  unimpressed.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  this  thing  was  beginning  to  annoy  him. 
Each  week — for  a  month,  now — his  rival  Boulton  had 
actually  bought  this  trash  from  Jim  and  printed  it  over 
the  signature  of  "James"  in  the  Herald.  And  it  was 
catching  on — that  was  the  absurdity  and  the  exaspera- 
tion of  it.  Everyone — even  up  country — knew  Jim, 
and  they  had  come  to  look  for  his  weekly  effusion. 

"That's  all  right,  Jim,  I  guess,"  he  admitted, 
"though  I'm  not  much  of  a  judge  of  that  sort  of  thing. 
Boulton  ought  to  like  it.  He  handles  cigars;  we  don't." 

"And  what  is  your  specialty,  Mr.  Parsons?" 

"Well,  just  at  present  we're  handling  a  line  of  zephyr 
vest  that's  going  to  show  folks  how  to  dress  in  the 
tropics." 

"Vests!"  cried  Jimmie,  with  sudden  animation. 
"Vest,  you  said.  I  like  it  better — positively,  I  like  it 
better!  More  opportunities  with  *vest.'  How's  this? 
The  first  verse  can  stand,  then — 

"Yet  stop!    There  is  one  other  feast 

Upon  this  Island  of  the  Blest, 
And  that  is  Parsons's  store  down  East, 
Where  dwells  the  only  zephyr  vest. 


78  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"So  cool  it  is,  so  feather-light, 

It  sits  with  such  an  easy  grace, 
That  you  may  walk  with  all  your  might 
And  not  a  bead  will  beck  your  face." 

Jimmie  stopped,  expectant.  Missi  Parsonic  had  re- 
sumed his  task  of  sorting  shirts. 

"Y-e-s,"  he  said,  "something  like  that,  and  I'll  take 
it.  I  want  five  verses,  each  bringing  in  Tarsons's 
Zephyr  Vest,'  just  like  that.  I  shan't  want  the  first 
verse.  What  do  you  charge?" 

Jimmie  leant  over  the  counter  and  whispered  into 
Missi  Parsonie's  ear.  The  latter  looked  up  doubt- 
fully, then  nodded. 

"And  in  advance,"  added  Jimmie,  with  unlooked-for 
firmness.  "It  takes  a  lot  out  of  one,  though  you  might 
not  think  it,  Mr.  Parsons.  It  is  doubtful  if  I  shall  sleep 
to-night.  You  shall  have  it  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

Missi  Parsonic  hesitated. 

"Mr.  Boulton  always  pays  in  advance.  One  must 
live,  you  know,"  added  Jimmie,  with  quiet  dignity. 

Missi  Parsonic  disappeared  behind  a  stack  of  kerosene 
cases,  and  to  Felisi  it  was  a  curious  thing  that,  while  he 
was  gone,  Jimmie  helped  himself  to  nothing,  not  even  a 
biscuit. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  shuffled  out  on  to  the  beach, 
carrying  a  parcel  packed  to  look  like  anything  but  what 
it  was,  and  failing  utterly. 

There  were  discreet  sounds  of  revelry  issuing  from 
Jimmie's  house  when  Felisi  visited  the  factory  that 
evening.  She  knew  there  would  be,  and  she  entered 
without  knocking. 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    79 

The  old  man  was  sitting  at  the  packing  case  which 
did  service  for  a  table,  with  a  litter  of  paper  at  his 
elbows,  talking  quietly  to  himself.  He  took  no 
notice  of  her  entrance,  and  she  sat  and  listened. 
These  self-communings  of  Jimmie's  always  interested 
her. 

"Parsons's  zephyr  vest,"  he  said,  three  times  and 
very  distinctly.  "Vest — west — best — blest — test — 
messed — jest.  .  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  away  as  rain 
commenced  to  patter  on  the  corrugated  iron  roof.  A 
wistful  look  came  into  Jimmie's  eyes;  then  he  seemed 
to  notice  Felisi  for  the  first  time.  He  looked  at  her,  and 
commenced  to  speak. 

"Rain!  I  never  hear  ram,  never  see  it  sloping  down 
— rain,  rain,  rain — without  thinking  of  Watlington, 
and  then  it  all  comes  back — all  of  it — ugh!"  He  shud- 
dered convulsively.  "Fancy  thinking  of  Watlington, 
after  all  I've  seen — Watlington!" 

He  laughed  quietly,  and  Felisi  joined  in.  She  was  a 
born  listener. 

"Queer,  isn't  it?  But  there  it  is.  Most  impression- 
able age,  I  suppose — eighteen  to  twenty-two — Wat- 
lington! Rows  and  rows  of  little  gray  houses,  all 
the  same,  and  all  full  of  the  same  sort  of  people." 
Again  Jimmie  shuddered.  "Suburbans,  that's  what 
they  call  'em — and  the  rain — a  cold,  dreary  rain.  It 
makes  no  difference.  Every  morning,  alarm  clock  six- 
thirty — breakfast  seven  o'clock,  porridge,  egg,  marma- 
lade. Train  eight  o'clock — with  a  black  bag.  Under- 
ground— crowded — have  to  stand.  Nine  o'clock — sign 
book  and  climb  on  to  a  stool " 


80  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Jimmie  was  still  looking  at  Felisi,  but  he  did  not  see 
her.  He  was  listening  to  the  rain,  and  his  voice  had 
become  a  dreary  monotone. 

Felisi  was  thoroughly  enjoying  it.  It  was  another 
puzzle  that  only  needed  to  be  put  together,  and  she  was 
becoming  an  expert  at  the  game. 

"  Stay  on  stool  adding  up  figures  .  .  .  One  o'clock 
lunch — one  shilling — stool,  stool,  stool — six  o'clock  train 
—underground — crowded — have  to  stand — Watlington 
— Rain — dinner — read,  talk,  drivel — listen  to  someone 
torturing  the  piano — every  day — all  day,  for  days,  and 
weeks,  and  months,  and  years!"  Jimmie's  voice  rose 
in  a  harsh  crescendo.  "Are  they  mad?  Or  am  I?" 
His  eyes  came  to  rest  on  Felisi  in  a  challenging  glare, 
and  she  knew  that  he  saw  her  now. 

"Queer,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  with  sudden  quietness. 
"People  are  doing  that  now — over  there.  And  they 
think  it  so  fine  that  they  want  everybody  to  do  it.  They 
wanted  me  to  do  it.  I  did  it  for  four  years.  Then  I 
came  home  to  Watlington  one  night  and  told  them  I 
wasn't  going  to  do  it  any  more.  They  said  I  was  mad. 
Perhaps  I  was,  but  I  didn't  do  it  any  more.  I  did 
something  else,  and  I'm  still  doing  something  else.  Lis- 
ten to  the  rain!  Watlington!"  Jimmie's  head  sank 
down  on  to  his  arms.  " Parsons' s — zephyr — vests!" 

he  muttered  drowsily.  "  Cool — pool — rule "  He  was 

asleep. 

He  was  really  still  asleep  when  Felisi  led  him  to  his 
bed  in  the  corner  and  left  him  with  the  mosquito  curtain 
well  tucked  in  under  the  mats.  She  fitted  together  the 
puzzle  as  she  went  down  the  red  earth  track  leading  to 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    81 

her  aunt's  grass  house  on  the  outskirts  of  Levuka,  and 
she  found  it  entertaining.  The  way  of  the  white  man 
had  always  interested  her. 

The  next  day  a  steamer  came  in,  and  she  was  busy. 
It  was  not  until  the  following  morning  that  she  visi- 
ted the  factory,  and  was  met  by  Jimmie  in  rather  low 
spirits. 

"What  d'you  think?"  he  demanded  indignantly, 
while  Felisi  was  setting  fronds  under  the  waterfall. 
"That  little  rat  Parsons  won't  buy  my  work  unless  it's 
exclusive." 

"Exclusive,"  mimicked  Felisi. 

"Yes,  you  know — unless  he  is  the  only  man  to  have 
it.  Swears  that  I  promised  that.  Did  I?" 

"No,"  said  Felisi. 

"I  should  think  not.  It  means  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing for  Boulton,  and  he  was  the  first  to  publish  me. 
I  shall  give  up  Parsons." 

The  ultimatum  was  delivered  in  all  gravity.  It 
meant  that  Jimmy  would  never  again  patronize  Parsons 
for  biscuits  or  matches  or  tobacco.  Felisi  felt  quite 
sorry  for  the  erring  tradesman. 

"Him  pay  you  already,"  she  suggested. 

Jimmie  hung  his  head. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "and  it's  all  gone.  Most  awk- 
ward. But  perhaps  Boulton  will  settle  the  matter. 
I  have  the  very  thing  for  next  week — 

"Why  do  we  all  return  in  time, 

As  though  by  magnet  swiftly  drawn, 
To  Ovalau's  voluptuous  clime, 
Where " 


82  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

But  Felisi  heard  no  more.  She  was  gazing  spell- 
bound past  the  upraised  shapely  hand  to  where  the 
track  breasted  the  hill.  Her  quick  eyes  had  detected 
two  white  objects  appearing  over  the  crest.  They 
were  solar  topees  that  rapidly  evolved  themselves 
into  men — white  men.  One  was  short  and  plump 
and  pink,  the  other  tall  and  dark.  Felisi  had  seen 
them  both  before,  and  knew  one  to  be  a  well-known 
Levuka  solicitor.  The  other  she  had  seen  coming 
down  the  gangway  of  the  steamer  the  previous  day. 
She  remembered  him  partly  because  of  his  vague 
resemblance  to  Jimmie,  and  partly  because  he  had 
brushed  her  aside  when  she  offered  the  imitation  pink 
coral. 

They  stood  in  full  view  now,  pausing  for  breath, 
then  the  pink  man  turned  and  disappeared  down  the 
track,  and  the  other  came  striding  toward  them. 

The  first  thing  that  caused  Jimmie  to  pause  in  the 
midst  of  a  particularly  flowing  stanza  was  the  expres- 
sion of  Felisi's  face.  He  wheeled,  quicker  than  Felisi 
could  have  dreamed  it  possible,  and  stood  stone  still, 
staring  into  the  other's  face,  and  not  seeming  to  notice 
his  outstretched  hand. 

"Jim,"  said  the  stranger,  "don't  you  know  me? 
Your  brother,  Charles." 

Jimmie  spoke,  but  it  was  like  a  mechanical  figure 
speaking  out  of  waxen  lips : 

"There's  some  mistake,  I'm  afraid." 

"No,  there's  no  mistake.  You  must  know  me,  Jim. 
Why,  man,  I " 

Jimmie  was  swaying  gently  where  he  stood.    His 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    83 

yellow  face  had  turned  a  waxen  gray.  Then  he  crum- 
pled forward  into  the  stranger's  arms. 

There  were  strange  happenings  on  the  cliff  for  the  next 
few  hours.  Felisi  watched  them,  enthralled,  whilst 
Jimmie  lay  in  the  grass,  staring  stonily  up  into  the 
branches  of  a  breadfruit  tree,  with  a  rapidly  rising 
temperature. 

The  stranger  performed  miracles  quietly  and  rapidly. 
The  murmur  of  native  voices  came  over  the  crest  of  the 
hill,  but  no  one  appeared.  Every  now  and  then  the 
stranger  vanished,  too,  to  reappear  dragging  or  carrying 
some  bulky,  queer-shaped  bundle.  A  speckless  white 
tent  sprang  into  being,  beds,  a  table,  and  chairs  unfolded 
themselves  from  green  parcels  of  miraculously  small 
proportions,  and  by  noon  the  transformation  scene  was 
complete.  Jimmie,  in  a  suit  of  striped  pink-and- white 
pyjamas,  lay  on  a  camp-bed  in  the  tent,  tossing  and 
muttering  with  fever.  The  stranger  sat  at  the  bedside, 
alternately  watching  him  with  his  stern  eyes,  and  dosing 
him  with  quinine. 

Presently,  when  Jimmie  had  fallen  into  a  doze,  the 
stranger  came  outside  and  looked  about  him.  His 
glance  went  like  an  arrow  to  the  tumbledown  house  of 
weather  boards  and  corrugated  iron  that  had  been 
Jimmie's  home  for  so  long.  His  hand  went  to  his 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  box  of  matches.  His  long  legs 
carried  him  to  the  building  in  ten  strides,  and  a  moment 
later  it  was  a  crackling  yellow  flame.  It  burnt  merrily 
until  there  was  nothing  left  but  glowing  embers  and  a 
few  blackened  sheets  of  corrugated  iron.  These  the 
stranger  pried  into  a  neat  pile  with  the  aid  of  a  stick, 


84  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

and  stood  back  to  view,  with  every  appearance  of  satis- 
faction, the  damage  he  had  wrought. 

Then  his  glance  fell  on  Felisi,  squatting  motionless  in 
the  factory.  She  shrank  from  him  as  he  approached. 

"Don't  run  aw^ay,"  he  pleaded,  in  a  wheedling  voice. 
"Do  you  speak  English,  little  girl?" 

Felisi  nodded  sullenly. 

*' You  do?  Then  let  me  make  it  quite  clear.  I  have 
bought  this  piece  of  land.  Do  you  understand?" 

Again  Felisi  nodded. 

"So  now  it  belongs  to  me,  and  you  mustn't  come 
here." 

"Jimmie  belong  you?"  demanded  Felisi,  with  a  hint 
of  truculence. 

The  stranger  laughed  softly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "Jimmie  belongs  to  me.  He  is 
my  brother.  He  is  very  ill,  and  when  he  gets  better 
I  don't  want  anything  to  remind  him  of  what  he 
was." 

"  You  make  him  ill!"  flashed  Felisi.  "Him  all  right 
before." 

"Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  "Jimmie  has  to  be  ill  before 
he  will  be  well.  Now  run  along,  there's  a  good  girl. 
What  is  this?"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  factory. 

"Pink  coral,"  said  Felisi  glibly.     "  You  no  want." 

"No,  I  don't  want  any.  But  here" —  the  stranger 
produced  a  silver  coin  and  held  it  out — "then  you  can 
run  along." 

Felisi  rose  slowly  to  her  feet  and  turned  toward  the 
track.  But  she  did  not  run,  and  she  left  the  silver  coin 
in  the  still  outstretched  hand  of  the  astonished  donor. 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    85 

She  heard  his  short  laugh  as  she  went  down  the  track, 
and  her  white  teeth  closed  with  a  snap  like  an  ivory  trap. 

There  was  now  plenty  of  puzzle  to  put  together,  and 
Felisi  entered  into  the  game  with  a  new  zest.  That 
evening  she  hid  in  a  lantana  bush  a  few  yards  from  the 
tent,  and,  as  well  as  witnessing  a  most  interesting  shadow- 
graph on  the  white  canvas  wall,  heard  the  following: 

"Jim,  are  you  better?" 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?" 

"Your  brother  Charles.  You  must  remember  me. 
Have  you  forgotten  Watlington — the  old  days?" 

A  short  pause. 

"Never  heard  of  it.     What  do  you  want,  anyway?" 

"I  want  you,  Jim." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  you're  my  brother." 

"Haven't  got  a  brother.  Some  mistake.  Got  a 
drink  there?" 

There  was  the  shadowgraph  of  a  hand  going  out  and 
filling  a  glass  very  carefully  from  a  bottle  and  a  syphon. 

"Call  that  a  drink?" 

"We're  going  to  fight  it  out,  Jim,  up  here  alone.  A 
little  less  each  time;  you  won't  notice  it." 

"What's  all  this?" 

"Pyjamas.  Don't  they  feel  nice  and  cool  and — and 
clean?  Lie  still,  Jim;  you're  not  strong  yet,  you  know." 

"If  I  didn't  know  it,  I'd  choke  you,  you — you  super- 
cilious, domineering 

"Ah,  the  same  old  Jim!" 

"  Get  out  of  here !  Who  gave  you  permission  to  come 
on  to  my — my  property,  and — 


86  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"It  was  never  your  property,  Jim.  They  let  you  live 
here,  but  it's  not  yours.  It's  mine  now — I've  bought  it." 

A  long  silence,  then — 

"It's  no  good,  Jim.  Be  reasonable.  I  don't  want 
much — only  that  you'll  come  back  with  me  and  live 
like  a  civilized  human  being.  You  owe  it  to  us." 

"I  owe  nothing  to  any  one  except  Parsons." 

"You  owe  it  to  us.  I  came  fifteen  thousand  miles  to 
find  you,  to  bring  you  back.  I  left  my  wife  and  two 
children  for  that,  and  I  shall  not  return  until  you  come 
with  me.  Why,  just  now,  in  your  fever,  you  mentioned 
Watlington  over  and  over  again.  When  you  first  came 
to  Levuka,  you  signed  your  name  in  the  hotel  register; 
there  it  is,  in  your  own  handwriting — J.  Crothers. 
There  aren't  many  Crotherses,  you  know,  Jim.  What's 
the  use  of  pretending?  It  isn't  as  if  you  left  anything 
to  be  ashamed  of  in  Watlington.  You  just  went  and 
never  came  back,  that's  all.  It  was  a  tremendous  busi- 
ness to  trace  you,  but  I  did  it.  The  world's  very  small, 
really.  Won't  you  even  admit 

"Never  heard  of  you.     Get  out!" 

"  Very  well.  You  know  me,  and  I  know  you.  I  shall 
stay  with  you  until  you  do  come  back.  My  wife  and 
children  can  wait." 

There  was  the  shadowgraph,  slightly  marred  by  the 
billowing  tent  wall,  of  an  attenuated  figure  rearing  it- 
self up  and  falling  upon  something  out  of  the  range  of 
vision.  There  were  the  sounds  of  a  brief  struggle,  the 
indefinite  picture  of  something  being  gently  laid  down, 
and  silence. 

"You  always  hated  me,  didn't  you,  Jim?"  a  voice 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    87 

droned  on  presently.  "I  think  you  hated  all  of  us;  I 
could  never  make  out  why." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  go  away  and  leave  me  in  peace!'* 
It  was  the  cry  of  a  tortured  soul.  "What  harm  have  I 
done  any  one — any  one — to  be  interfered  with  like  this?  " 

"You  have  only  harmed  yourself,  Jim." 

"Then  what  business  is  it  of  yours  to — to " 

"It  is  the  business  of  every  brother — 

"But  I  tell  you  it's  a  mistake!  I  have  no  brother. 
Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad?" 

"No;  but  I  must  finish,  now  that  I  have  begun.  You 
want  to  know  why  I  came  all  this  way,  now,  to  find  you 
and  bring  you  back?" 

"I  don't!    I  never  said  I  did.     I " 

"Well,  Uncle  Fred  died  five  years  ago."  The  dron- 
ing voice  became  more  hesitant.  "He  left  some  money 
to  be  equally  divided  between  us.  I  spent  it  all — for  the 
children's  sake."  The  voice  stopped.  It  had  evidently 
been  a  tremendous  effort  to  say  as  much.  But  there 
was  no  answer,  and  it  went  on:  "Then  I  began  to  think 
about  you,  Jim.  You  became  a  short  of  ghost  to  haunt 
me.  I  just  had  to  tell  you  what  I'd  done.  I'm  built 
like  that,  as  you  know.  I  just  had  to  find  out  where 
you  were — what  you  were  doing.  You  might  have  been 
out  in  the  world  starving,  and  there  was  I  in  Watlington. 
I  had  wife  and  children,  but  your  ghost  rose  up  between 
them  and  me.  I  left  them,  and  swore  I  would  not  come 
back  until  I  brought  you  with  me.  You  might  have 
been  ill — wanted  help  for  years.  I  hunted  for  you  and 
found  you — like  this.  We'll  fight  it  out  together,  Jim, 
up  here  alone." 


88  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

There  were  indistinct  mumblings. 

Felisi  listened  intently,  but  all  she  could  catch  was 
something  that  sounded  like  "vest — blest — west " 

Jimmie  was  in  the  grip  of  fever  again. 

For  three  days  this  went  on,  and  when  Felisi  saw  him 
one  day  sitting  outside  the  tent,  he  had  changed  from  a 
happy  child  into  a  miserable  old  man. 

It  took  Felisi  some  time  to  come  to  a  decision,  but 
when  once  it  had  been  arrived  at,  the  result  was  usually 
pretty  thorough. 

Shortly  after  midnight  she  crawled  out  from  the 
lantana  bush  and  pushed  the  tent  wall  so  that  it  also 
pushed  Jimmie,  at  the  same  time  making  a  queer  little 
noise  of  her  own.  There  was  an  agonizing  pause, 
then  an  elongated  form  crawled  from  the  tent,  seized 
her  by  the  hand,  and  stumbled  after  her  into  the  bush. 

They  progressed  in  this  fashion — Jimmie  called  it 
running — for  perhaps  an  hour,  before  he  was  allowed  to 
sink  on  to  the  musty  mats  of  a  disused  hut  deep  in  the 
recesses  of  the  bush.  He  lay  as  one  dead,  until  Felisi 
produced  from  somewhere — with  the  air  of  a  conjurer 
producing  rabbits  from  a  hat — a  bottle  of  amber  liquid. 
Then  Jimmie  sat  up. 

"Felisi,  you're  a  gem,"  he  said,  with  something  of  his 
old-time  spirit. 

"You  all  right,"  chirped  the  conjurer.  "Him  go 
away  plenty  quick." 

But  Jimmie  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't  know  my  brother  Charles,"  he  said. 
"  Watlington ! "  And  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
sobbed  like  the  child  he  was. 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    89 

"You  all  right,  you  all  right,"  soothed  Felisi,  but  it 
was  of  no  avail.  Jimmie  was  very  weak,  and  the  amber 
liquid  had  gone  to  his  head. 

"He's  right — I  always  did  hate  him!"  he  said.  "We 
were  so  different,  somehow,  and  he  always  dominated 
me.  He  can  dominate  me  now,  after  all  these  years. 
It's  queer,  but  there  it  is.  I  feel  all  crumpled  up  when 
he's  about.  But  I  won't  go  back.  He's  too  late.  Any 
one  would  be  too  late  now.  I  was  happy.  I  wasn't 
doing  anybody  any  harm.  And  I  won't  go  back!  I'd 
kill  myself  first!" 

Felisi  crept  close. 

"Why  you  no  kill  him?"  she  said. 

Jimmie  regarded  her  with  horror-struck  eyes. 

"  Me  kill  him,"  she  added  very  quietly. 

"No,  you  mustn't  do  that.  You  shan't  do  that.  I 
won't  let  you  do  that."  Jimmie  had  seized  her  hand  as 
though  it  held  a  dagger  upraised.  "No!"  Jimmie 
suddenly  became  dignified.  "I  will  speak  to  him  as  a 
man,  not  as — as  the  worm  he  thinks  me.  After  all,  I 
have  the  law.  But  the  law  is  queer;  it  does  strange 
things — it  might  uphold  him.  No,  I  shall  say:  'Pardon 
me,  I  haven't  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 
Jimmie's  manner  was  that  of  Parsons's  store  when  he 

took  a  biscuit.   "I  shall  say But  then  there  are  his 

wife  and  children.  He  has  said  that  he  won't  go  back 
without  me,  and  he  means  it.  Charles  always  meant 
what  he  said.  Different  to  me — poles  apart.  Never- 
theless, my  life  is  my  own,  and  I  shall  say  to  him  'Go !' 
like  that,  I  shall— 

When,  however,  about  ten  minutes  later,  there  was 


90  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

the  sound  of  running  feet,  followed  by  the  appearance  of 
the  panting  stranger,  Jimmie  said  nothing  of  the  sort. 
In  a  surprisingly  short  space  of  time  he  was  back  in  the 
tent  and  in  bed,  with  a  string  tied  securely  round  his 
waist  at  one  end,  and  round  the  stranger's  wrist  at  the 
other. 

The  puzzle  became  more  and  more  involved,  but 
Felisi  struggled  with  it  manfully. 

Jimmie  became  very  docile  after  that  ignominious 
night  of  freedom,  but  the  string  was  still  in  use,  and  a 
few  nights  later  the  stranger  woke  with  a  start.  He 
pulled  on  the  string  gently,  and  it  came  toward  him 
over  the  ground.  He  got  up  and  examined  Jimmie's 
bed.  It  was  empty.  He  went  outside  and  watched 
the  sun  climb  out  of  the  sea. 

What  a  nuisance  that  fellow  was!  No,  it  was  that 
infernal  native  girl.  It  would  be  necessary,  after  all, 
then,  to  have  recourse  to  the  police. 

The  stranger  turned  wearily  from  the  sea,  and  was 
entering  the  tent,  when  his  glance  happened  on  a  hud- 
dled heap  of  cheap  patterned  calico  close  to  the  water- 
fall. It  was  the  "infernal  native  girl."  She  took  no 
heed  of  his  approach,  and  when  he  raised  her  head, 
silent  tears  were  streaming  down  her  face. 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  the  stranger  peremp- 
torily. 

Felisi  did  not  answer.  She  merely  rocked  gently  from 
side  to  side,  kneeling  in  the  grass. 

"Where  is  he?"  repeated  the  stranger,  with  quiet  in- 
sistence but  with  an  anxious  look  in  his  eyes. 

Felisi  pointed  to  the  cliff. 


THE  COMPLETE  BEACHCOMBER    91 

'*  You  kill  him,"  she  said. 

The  stranger  strode  to  the  edge  and  looked  over. 
Below,  the  blue  waters  of  the  Pacific  lashed  themselves 
into  white  fury  against  the  needles  of  volcanic  rock  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliff.  Half- 
way down,  where  it  was  im- 
possible for  a  goat  to  have 
found  foothold,  there  was  a 
little  bush,  and  fluttering  from 
it  a  tattered  strip  of  pink-and- 
white  flannel. 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  for  anything  but  a  shred  of 
Jimmie's  wonderful  pyjamas. 

The  stranger  looked  out  over  the  sea.  The  white 
wings  of  a  hurricane  bird  fanned  his  face,  and  he  moved. 
He  took  Felisi  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her. 

"You  lie!"  he  said  fiercely.     "Where  is  he?" 

"  You  kill  him!"  sobbed  Felisi,  and  he  could  get  noth- 
ing else  out  of  her. 

The  very  best  of  search  parties  scoured  the  little 
island  of  Ovalau  for  a  fortnight.  Then  the  stranger 
went  home  in  a  big  steamer. 

Felisi  and  Jimmie  watched  it,  from  the  cliff,  slowly 
dissolving  into  the  heat  haze.  Then  the  work  of  the 
factory  was  resumed,  and  Jimmie  sat  in  his  favourite 
seat,  declaiming  to  the  sunshine — 

"Thrice — blessed  Isle  of  Ovalau, 
Thou  art  my  mother,  father,  friend 

.     .     .    trow,  plow,  cow,  now,  how     .     .     . 


THE  PEEP  SHOW 


fTT^MIE  two  men  broke  from  the  bush  and  stood 
blinking  in  the  sudden  glare  of  beach,  and  sea, 
-•-      and  sky,  like  owls  strayed  from  their  cranny  in 
the  light  of  day. 

One  was  tall  and  very  thin,  the  other  short  and  thin 
also.  Both  were  ragged,  unspeakably  begrimed,  and  so 
weary  that  they  could  scarce  stand. 

"Gaw!"  said  the  shorter  man,  and,  as  though  this 
strange  utterance  were  some 
sort  of  signal,  collapsed  on  the 
spot. 

The  other  said  nothing,  but 
carefully  lowered  a  round,  com- 
pact bundle  from  his  shoulder 
to  the  ground,  and  sat  upon  it. 

At  this  juncture  Felisi,  who 

had  watched  their  advent  from 

the  doorway  of  her  father's  house,  saw  fit  to  make 
her  presence  known;  and  a  very  engaging  presence  it 
was,  consisting  of  five  feet  two  inches  and  fifteen  years 
of  bronze  femininity,  lithe  and  upstanding  like  a  boy, 
clad  in  her  best  sulu,  a  red  hibiscus  blossom,  and  a 
dazzling  smile.  But  what  would  you?  It  is  not  for 
nothing  that  one  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  chief  of  a 

92 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  93 

village  like  Luana.  The  position  has  its  responsibili- 
ties, and  Felisi  was  duly  aware  of  them. 

"You  want  'im  guest  house?"  she  suggested  amiably. 

The  tall  man  surveyed  her  for  a  moment  with  in- 
finitely tired  gray  eyes  before  a  flicker  of  light  came 
into  them  and  a  smile  puckered  the  corners  of  his  month. 

"Are  you  a  Kanaka  kid  or  an  angel  out  of  heaven?" 
he  demanded  irrelevantly. 

"  Me  Kanaka  kid,"  replied  Felisi,  whereat  the  tall  man 
chuckled  weakly. 

"Guest  house?"  he  echoed.  "I  should  just  say  we 
do  want  a  guest  house.  Lead  on,  Macduff !" 

"Me  Felisi,  no  Macduff,"  corrected  the  "presence." 
"All  along  this  way,  please." 

The  tall  man  plucked  his  prone  companion  by  the  arm. 
"Morgan!"  he  shouted.  "Hi,  Morgan!  We're  being 
offered  a  guest  house  by  the  head  of  the  department." 

"Go  t'  'ell!"  muttered  Morgan. 

With  an  alacrity  evidently  born  of  habit,  the  tall  man 
jerked  the  other  to  his  feet  and  half  carried,  half  dragged 
him  along  the  grass-grown  village  path.  The  bundle  he 
treated  with  infinitely  more  respect,  and  when  Felisi 
offered  to  relieve  him  of  it,  merely  smiled  and  shook  his 
head. 

The  cool,  dim  spaciousness  of  the  guest  house  had 
no  sooner  received  its  visitors  than  Felisi  withdrew,  to 
continue  her  observations  from  outside  through  a  hole  of 
her  own  making  in  the  reed  wall.  It  was  not  precisely 
the  thing  to  do,  but  Felisi  had  no  notion  of  that.  All 
she  did  know  was  that  the  advent  of  these  two  dilapi- 
dated white  men  was  the  first  occurrence  of  interest 


94  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

that  had  taken  place  in  Luana  for  three  months,  and 
she  intended  to  make  the  most  of  it.  They  came  from 
the  world  that  she  knew  and  loved  so  well,  throbbing 
centre  of  civilization  such  as  Levuka  and  Suva,  where 
governors  and  their  ladies  drove  in  glittering  carriages, 
where  immense  ships  unloaded  impossible  freights  of 
passengers  and  cargo  on  to  the  groaning  wharves,  and 
where,  incidentally,  it  was  possible  to  amass  a  fortune 
by  merely  looking  as  charming  as  one  happened  to  be, 
and  selling  imitation  pink  coral  to  credulous  tourists. 
Already  by  this  means  she  (Felisi)  had  been  instru- 
mental in  securing  to  her  family  a  sewing-machine,  a 
boat,  and  a  typewriter,  and  she  had  no  doubt,  when 
the  novelty  of  this  last  acquisition  had  worn  off,  she 
would  be  hurled  again  into  the  vortex.  She  only  prayed 
that  it  might  be  soon. 

With  this  boundless  experience  of  the  white  man  and 
his  ways  at  her  finger  tips,  Felisi  was  in  no  way  surpris- 
ed at  what  she  saw  through  the  hole  in  the  guest  house 
wall.  Morgan  lay  as  he  had  fallen  on  the  mats,  a  sprawl- 
ing, heavily  breathing  heap  of  unclean  humanity.  The 
other  looked  about  him,  found  a  bamboo  of  water,  and 
washed,  took  off  his  boots  and,  squatting  on  the  floor, 
drew  from  his  bundle  a  pair  of  faded  pyjamas  and  a 
toothbrush. 

The  rites  that  followed  interested  Felisi  not  at  all; 
her  attention  was  for  the  moment  centred  on  the  bun- 
dle. Other  things  came  out  of  it,  yet  its  dimensions 
remained  miraculously  the  same.  It  was  still  heavy, 
and  round,  and  about  the  size  of  a  ripe  mummy  apple. 
It 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  95 

The  tall  man  placed  it  under  his  head,  and  on  the 
instant,  so  it  seemed,  fell  into  a  trance-like  sleep.  The 
curtain  was  rung  down  on  the  first  act  of  Felisi's  peep 
show.  But  there  was  still  the  bundle. 

Within  five  minutes  she  knew  what  it  contained,  and 
like  a  dutiful  daughter,  made  a  report  to  her  father. 

"They  have  come  far  and  are  very  tired,"  she  told 
him,  squatting  in  her  proper  place  at  the  doorway. 

The  Chief  of  Luana  looked  up  from  a  litter  of  mean- 
ingless papers,  and  fixed  Felisi  with  his  official  frown. 
He  was  a  quaint  little  man,  who,  under  pretence  of  be- 
ing eternally  busy,  did  nothing  whatever.  As  a  newly 
elected  member  of  the  local  native  district  council,  he 
had  been  inordinately  impressed  at  the  first  assembly 
by  the  importance  of  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  printed 
form.  Whatever  its  shape  or  colour  or  size,  it  was  ap- 
parent to  him  that  all  things  had  their  inception,  their 
proper  conduct,  and  ultimate  fruition  in  "forms,"  so  he 
had  brought  away  a  kerosene  tin  full  of  them  for  his 
own  use.  The  typewriter  followed  as  a  second  and 
culminating  stroke  of  originality.  He  would  send  in 
the  returns  of  Luana's  health,  population,  and  trade 
as  they  should  be  sent  in.  He  intended  to  get  on.  Care- 
fully selecting  a  faded  blue  document  issued  for  the  re- 
turns of  cattle  diseases  in  the  year  1891,  he  slipped  it 
into  the  machine  and  proceeded  with  two  gnarled  fingers 
to  pound  it  with  purple  hieroglyphics. 

"Are  they  turagas  (gentlemen)?"  he  snapped  during 
a  pause  in  proceedings,  and  precisely  in  the  manner 
of  the  local  J.  P. 

"One  of  them  is  a  turaga"  replied  his  daughter,  who 


96  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

was  the  only  member  of  his  household  he  seemed  un- 
able to  impress. 

"And  what  is  their  business?" 

"  I  do  not  know — yet.  They  have  not  spoken.  They 
are  asleep." 

"Have  they  many  cigars  and  much  wisiky?" 

"They  have  nothing,"  said  Felisi,  "except " 

The  Chief  of  Luana  had  intended  to  smite  the  wicker 
table  after  the  fashion  of  the  Native  Commissioner  when 
exasperated,  but,  instead,  his  wrist  caught  the  type- 
writer keys,  causing  several  bars  to  rear  on  end  and 
unite  in  a  tangled  mass. 

"One  is  a  turaga"  he  scoffed,  "yet  they  have  noth- 
ing!" 

"That  is  so,"  returned  his  imperturbable  daughter. 
"It  is  often  so  with  turagas.  This  one  has  nothing  but 
a  lump  of  ambergris  the  size  of  my  head,  which  he  keeps 
ever  by  him." 

Her  father's  eyes  goggled  at  her  over  the  typewriter. 

"Ambergris!"  he  repeated  in  an  awed  undertone. 

"Yes.  It  is  one  hundred  pounds  for  a  piece  no  big- 
ger than  a  pigeon's  egg  in  Suva.  I  have  seen." 

And  the  Chief  of  Luana  knew  this  to  be  so.  For  a 
while  his  brow  was  creased  by  a  myriad  wrinkles,  which 
signified  that  he  was  trying  to  think;  then  he  waved 
Felisi  from  the  presence. 

"Go,"  he  ordered,  "and  tend  these  guests  as  you 
would  others.  I  will  make  known  the  Government's 
wishes  when  I  have  submitted  my  report." 

Felisi  proceeded  to  carry  out  instructions  with  all  the 
pleasure  in  life,  so  that  when  the  visitors  awoke,  after 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  97 

twenty-four  hours  of  log-like  slumber,  they  found  the 
matting  spread  with  delicacies,  and  their  guide  of  the 
previous  night  in  discreet  attendance. 

"This  is  a  bit  of  all  right,"  quoth  Morgan,  ravenously 
attacking  the  prawns. 

"Very  kind,"  said  the  tall  man;  "  but  I  think  we  ought 
to  tell  you,"  he  added,  turning  to  Felisi,  "we  can't  pay 
for  anything.  We  have  no  money." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Morgan  through  a  mouth- 
ful. "This  is  the  way  in  the  out-back  villages — guest 
house  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  know  down-and-outs 
who've  lived  like  princes  for  three  months  and  more  in 
one  of  'em  for  nothing  but  an  old  shirt.  We're  on  vel- 
vet, Slade,  and  about  time,  too,  I  reckon." 

The  tall  man  waited  until  the  other's  voice  was 
entirely  deadened  by  food,  then  turned  again  to  their 
hostess. 

"Where  are  we?"  he  asked,  with  his  whimsical  smile. 

"Him  Luana,"  came  the  response  out  of  the  shadows. 

"Luana,  eh?  Well,  it  sounds  pretty,  and  is  pretty, 
but  how  do  we  get  out  of  here  to  where  there  are  steam- 
ers— steamers,  savvy?" 

"Me  savvy,"  replied  Felisi,  with  a  pout  at  the  re- 
flection on  her  intelligence.  "You  wait  maybe  six, 
maybe  thirty  day,  and  cutter  him  take  you  outahere." 

"Maybe  six,  maybe  thirty,"  mused  the  tall  man. 
"And  whom  do  we  thank  for  looking  after  us  all  that 
time?" 

Felisi  wriggled  in  delicious  self-consciousness  on  the 
mats. 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Slade,"  interposed  Morgan.     "They 


98  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

don't  want  thanks.  Don't  understand  'em.  They 
look  after  us  for  the  honour  of  the  thing.  Pleases  the 
chief,  and  all  that.  As  long  as  we  are  looked  after,  what 
does  it  matter  who  does  it,  or  why?  You  make  me 
tired.  Hi,  Mary,  some  more  faro,  lively!" 

"Will  you  go  to  the  Chief  of  Luana,"  continued  the 
tall  man,  as  though  the  other  had  not  spoken,  "and 
convey  to  him  our  thanks?" 

Felisi  nodded  and  retired,  whereupon  the  tall  man 
drew  a  battered  pouch  from  his  pocket  and  thoughtfully 
filled  his  pipe. 

"Look  here,  Morgan,"  he  said,  "it's  about  time  you 
and  I  understood  one  another." 

"I'm  on,"  agreed  Morgan. 

"We're  partners,"  the  other  continued  slowly,  "until 
we  sell  and  divide  the  proceeds;  there's  no  avoiding  that. 
But  there's  no  need  to  hide  the  fact  that  we  dislike  each 
other  pretty  thoroughly,  is  there?" 

Morgan  drew  his  knees  to  his  chin,  and  sat  staring 
over  them  with  his  bright,  furtive  little  eyes. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "we'll  let  it  go  at  that." 

"And  personally  I  don't  see  any  need  for  us  to  rely 
solely  on  one  another's  company  for  perhaps  thirty 
more  days,  either,  do  you?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"So,  while  we're  waiting  for  a  cutter,  I  suggest 
that  either  you  or  I  get  out  of  here.  Which  is  it  to 
be?" 

"Who  looks  after  the  stuff?" 

"I  do,"  said  Slade. 

"I  see,"  sneered  Morgan. 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  99 

"I  do,"  Slade  repeated,  puffing  meditatively  at  his 
pipe.  "I  don't  trust  you,  Morgan." 

"And  why  should  I  trust  you?" 

"Because  I've  never  given  you  cause  to  distrust  me," 
returned  Slade.  He  turned  slowly  and  looked  full  into 
the  venomous  eyes  of  his  partner.  "I  found  you  out 
— that's  why  you  hate  me  so,  Morgan.  I  suppose 
you've  forgotten  all  that  happened  back  there  in  the 
mangroves.  I  haven't.  Why,  man,  you  wouldn't 
be  here  now  if  I  hadn't  dragged  and  carried  and  kicked 
you  here!  Yet  ever  since  I  ran  across  this  stuff  your 
one  thought  has  been  how  to  rob  me  of  my  share  of  it. 
Twice  I  caught  you,  Morgan,  slinking  off.  The  first 
time  I  believed  the  yarn  you  put  up,  instead  of  leaving 
you  to  rot.  The  second  time  you  confessed  and  asked 
my  forgiveness,  grovelling  there  in  the  swamp " 

"Who'll  believe  that?" 

"No  one,  because  no  one  will  be  told  of  it;  but  I  know 
it,  and  that's  why  you  hate  me,  and  that's  why  I  distrust 
you,  and  why  I'm  going  to  look  after  our  property  until 
it's  sold." 

A  glint  came  into  Morgan's  eyes. 

"I'll  toss  you  for  the  lot,"  he  suggested  magnani- 
mously, "and  that'll  make  an  end  of  it.  Come,  be  a 
sport,  Slade;  just  the  flick  of  a  coin — your  com,  if  you 
like." 

Slade  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"If  that's  being  a  sport,  I've  finished  with  sport,"  he 
said.  "I've  had  too  many  little  fortunes  within  cooee 
and  lost  them,  to  do  the  same  with  this.  I'm  afraid  to 
take  the  chance^  if  you  like.  I  tell  you,  this  last  little 


100  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

jaunt's  taken  it  clean  out  of  me.  I'm  getting  old.  I'm 
going  to  stick  to  what  I've  got  this  time,  in  spite  of  you 
or  the  devil,  and  make  a  clean  breakaway  for  the  cool 
rains  and  other  things  worth  having."  His  hand  rested 
on  the  bundle  at  his  side.  "This  means  more  to  me 
than  I'd  ever  dream  of  telling  you,  or  you'd  under- 
stand," he  added  gravely.  "It  means — everything." 

Morgan's  glance  travelled  to  the  weather-worn  sack- 
ing that  covered  their  joint  fortune,  and  rested  there  a 
moment.  The  other  smiled. 

"You'll  have  to  kill  me  to  get  it,  Morgan,"  he  said 
quietly,  "and  I  don't  think  you'd  do  that." 

"Why  not?"     The  question  came  involuntarily. 

"Because  you  haven't  the  pluck,"  said  Slade. 
"You're  a  sneak  thief,  not  a  murderer." 

Morgan  sat  motionless  for  a  long  moment,  then  got 
slowly  to  his  feet. 

"That's  straight,"  he  said. 

"It's  meant  to  be,"  returned  Slade.  "Why  should 
we  be  anything  else  with  one  another?  You  know  me, 
and  I  know  you,  or,  if  we  don't,  we  ought  to  by  now. 
What's  the  good  of  pretence  between  us  two?" 

Morgan  shrugged  his  lean  shoulders. 

"And  just  what  is  it  you  want  now?"  he  asked,  after 
a  pause. 

"I  want  a  rest,"  said  Slade,  "don't  you?  The  length 
of  the  village  apart  will  suit  me,  if  it  suits  you." 

"And  what  if  it  doesn't  suit  me?" 

"The  next  month  will  have  to  be  rather  more 
trying  for  both  of  us  than  it  need  be,  that's  all,"  said 
Slade. 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  101 

Morgan  went  over  to  the  doorway  and  stood  looking 
out  at  the  glare. 

"All  right,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  passed  outside, 
whistling. 

Slade  sat  staring  after  him  for  a  while,  then  drew  the 
back  of  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and  sank  back  on  to 
the  mats. 

"Now,"  he  muttered.  "Now,  of  all  times!"  and 
drew  a  mat  over  his  already  trembling  body. 

The  second  act  of  Felisi's  peep  show  had  been  enter- 
taining. Perhaps  the  acting  was  rather  more  subdued 
than  a  transpontine  audience  could  have  wished,  but  it 
gave  promise  of  development.  Felisi  lowered  the  cur- 
tain by  the  simple  expedient  of  allowing  the  reed  wall 
to  resume  its  normal  contour,  and  went  into  the  guest 
house  to  clear  away. 

The  tall  man  lay  watching  her  from  under  his  mat 
with  unnaturally  bright  eyes  and  compressed  lips. 
Felisi  recognized  the  symptoms:  he  was  trying  to  keep 
his  teeth  from  chattering.  Why  did  they  all  do  that? 
Because  it  was  in  their  nature  to  make  a  fight?  Per- 
haps. But  the  tall  man  was  fighting  something  stronger 
than  himself,  and  by  nightfall  he  was  in  a  raging  fever. 

"Another  mat,  and  I  shall  be  all  right,"  he  jerked  out; 
"just  one  more.  Ah,  thank  you,  little  girl!  And  keep 
everyone  away.  Don't  let  them  know — any  one,  mind. 
I  mustn't  lose  control — mustn't.  .  .  ."  The  words 
came  from  him  in  convulsive  jerks.  It  was  terrible  to 
watch.  And  all  the  while  the  bundle  was  clasped  tight 
in  his  straining  arms.  "After  all — and  so  near  the  end, 
so  near  ....  Out  of  here,  away  home,  start 


102  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

afresh,  go  slow;  it's  the  last  chance,  the  last.  .  .  .' 
Hark!  There  he  is!"  But  it  was  only  a  hurricane 
bird  crying  overhead,  and  Felisi  told  him  so,  and  knelt 
beside  him  with  a  cocoanut  shell  of  water.  "Quite  the 
little  nurse,  aren't  you?"  stuttered  the  tall  man,  his 
eyes  blazing  at  her  out  of  the  darkness.  "I  shan't  for- 
get this.  What  was  your  name?  Ah,  Felisi!  Felisi, 
no  Macduff,  eh?  Well,  I  shan't  forget  it.  There— 
there  he  is!" 

The  water  spilled  from  his  lips,  his  body  remained 
rigid  while  a  trickle  of  laughter  filtered  through  the 
night.  It  was  Morgan's  over  kava  in  the  chief's  house 
not  fifty  yards  distant.  He  had  a  way  with  chiefs,  had 
Morgan.  If  he  heard!  If  he  came — now!  Felisi  took 
the  sick  man's  burning  hand  between  her  own  and 
tried  to  soothe  him  to  silence. 

"Him  no  come,"  she  crooned.  "Him  no :  But 

he  was  coming.  A  musical  whistling  drew  nearer. 

"Keep  him  away!"  gasped  the  tall  man  hi  what  he 
had  intended  for  a  whisper,  but  what  was  jerked  from 
his  throat  in  a  raucous  shout. 

The  whistling  ceased  abruptly.  There  was  a  pause, 
then  the  faint  sound  of  naked  feet  on  the  wooden  run- 
way leading  up  to  the  guest  house,  and  Morgan  came  in. 

What  he  saw  appeared  to  amuse  him,  for  his  mouth 
twisted  into  a  smile. 

"Got  it,  eh?"  he  observed,  looking  down  on  his 
stricken  partner. 

"Just  a  touch,"  said  Slade  between  clenched  teeth. 

"Only  a  touch.  Well,  that's  all  right.  Pity  we 
haven't  any  quinine;  but  you'll  be  better  after  a  bit." 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  103 

And  then  he  went.  Felisi  could  scarcely  bring  her- 
self to  believe  it,  but  it  was  so.  He  had  gone.  The 
other's  ramblings  provided  the  explanation. 

"Hardly  ripe  .  .  .  might  put  up  a  fight  .  .  . 
wait  till  I'm  helpless.  .  .  ."A  defiant  chuckle  came 
from  under  the  quaking  pyramid  of  mats.  "But  that's 
where  he  makes  the  mistake — big  mistake.  I'm  not 
going  under.  I'm  better.  D'you  hear  that,  Felisi — no 
Macduff?  Better— ah  .  .  .  ."  And  with  that  the 
tall  man  lost  consciousness. 

Morgan  had  returned  to  the  chief's  house,  and  was  be- 
guiling him  with  titbits  of  officialdom  when  Felisi  found 
time  to  shift  her  sphere  of  activities. 

".  .  .  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  chief,  I  am 
favourably  impressed  with  the  conduct  of  affairs  in 
Luana,"  he  was  saying  in  glib  dialect,  "very  favourably 
impressed.  It  seems  to  me  you  are  wasted  here.  What 
you  want  is  influence,  commonly  called  'boost.' ' 

"Boost,"  repeated  the  chief,  who  was  rapidly  be- 
coming impressed. 

"Yes.  Now,  there's  my  dear  old  friend  Bettington, 
the  Commissioner — you  may  have  heard  of  him?" 
The  chief  nodded  with  bulging  eyes.  "There's  a 
man  who  could  give  you  a  lift,  if  any  one  could,  and 
sometimes,  over  one  of  our  little  dinners,  I  can  do  a 
lot.  You  send  in  your  report,  and  I'll  see  that  it's 
noticed  in  the  proper  quarter.  That's  the  way  we  do 
things." 

With  his  customary  expression  of  bemused  anxiety 
when  dealing  with  matters  beyond  his  depth,  the  Chief 
of  Luana  sat  fingering  buff  Form  No.  21875,  and  won- 


104  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

dering  what  this  exceedingly  pleasant  person  required. 
He  was  not  long  left  in  suspense. 

"In  the  meantime,"  proceeded  the  pleasant  person, 
"my  friend  is  too  ill  to  travel,  and  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  go  on  alone  at  once.  If  you  place  a  good  sailing  canoe 
and  two  men  at  my  disposal  for  a  week  from  to-night, 
and  look  after  my  friend  until  I  return  for  him  in  the 
Government  launch — probably  with  Bettington  himself 
— I  will  simply  hand  you  here  and  now  what  we  call  in 
official  circles  a  promissory  note " 

"A  form,"  muttered  the  chief  uncertainly. 

"Exactly,  a  form,"  agreed  Morgan,  "duly  signed, 
sealed,  and  delivered  for  any  amount  within  reason. 
As  you  know,  we  of  the  Government  are  not  sticklers 
as  to  cost.  .  .  ." 

He  said  a  great  deal  more,  but  Felisi  could  wait  no 
longer.  Her  services  were  in  request  elsewhere. 

The  third  act  of  the  peep  show  was  eminently  satis- 
factory. It  opened  on  an  empty  stage  save  for  a  pile 
of  mats  in  a  far  corner  of  the  guest  house  and  the 
flickering  light  of  a  candlenut  that  cast  long  shadows 
across  the  yellow  matting  of  the  floor. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  it  came,  but  at  last  an- 
other and  more  definite  shadow  joined  the  rest,  moving 
swiftly  across  the  guest  house.  At  the  pile  of  mats  it 
paused,  kneeling,  peering,  outstretching  an  arm.  It 
was  a  hesitant  shadow  even  now,  and  not  without  cause, 
for  in  its  gropings  under  the  mats  its  arm  became  sud- 
denly transfixed,  and  in  a  moment  the  guest  house  was 
a  chaos  of  struggling  men. 

But  it  did  not  last  long.     Morgan  was  infinitely  the 


THE  PEEP  SHOW  105 

stronger.  With  a  wrench  he  was  free  and  away,  the 
bundle  under  his  arm,  his  partner,  a  gaunt,  dishevelled 
figure,  stumbling  impotently  in  his  wake.  Felisi 
watched  them  go — down  through  the  moon-mottled 
fringes  of  the  palm  grove  and  out  on  to  the  beach. 

There  a  canoe  was  waiting  on  a  sea  of  inky  shadows, 
and  Morgan  was  soon  lost  to  sight.  The  other  stood 
for  a  moment,  swaying  gently,  his  long  arms  hanging 
nerveless  at  his  sides  until  the  last  iota  of  his  strength 
had  ebbed,  and  he  crumpled  face  downward  on  the  sand. 

Felisi  smiled  to  herself  in  the  shadow  of  the  guest 
house.  Undoubtedly  the  third  act  had  been  a  success. 
It  only  remained  to  supply  a  fitting  climax,  which  she 
proceeded  to  do  by  combing  her  hair,  and  taking  from 
its  hiding  place  a  bundle  wrapped  in  weather-worn 
sacking.  This  she  carried  down  to  the  beach,  that  it 
might  be  the  first  thing  her  patient's  eye  should  rest 
upon. 

Unfortunately,  the  more  telling  phase  of  the  climax 
was  perforce  enacted  "off,"  when  somewhere  and  at 
some  time  an  exactly  similar  bundle  was  exultantly 
unwrapped,  exposing  to  view  a  congealed  mass  of 
Luana's  good  red  clay.  But  you  cannot  have  it  both 
ways,  even  in  a  peep  show. 


THE  LONELY  LADY 

F  |  ^HE  yacht,  a  graceful  thing  of  slender  spars  and 
glinting  white  enamel,  rounded  the  headland 

-•-      and  dropped  anchor  a  cable's  length  from  shore. 

All  Luana,  comprising  sixty  souls  of  respective  age, 
sex,  and  volubility,  a  medley  of  nondescript  dogs  and 
chickens,  several  pigs,  and  a  tethered  turtle  or  two,  was 
awakened  from  its  customary  torpor  to  witness  the 
amazing  spectacle.  Even  the  broad  leaves  of  the  cocoa- 
nut  palms,  falling  in  green  waves  to  the  beach,  seemed 
to  quiver  in  sympathetic  excitement.  Never  had  Luana 
been  treated  to  anything  half  as  thrilling !  Luana,that  is, 
with  the  exception  of  Felisi. 

She  stood  apart  from  her  flustered  and  clucking  rela- 
tives, silent,  watchful,  apparently  unimpressed,  though 
a  certain  tensity  in  her  mien  gave  the  lie  to  her  pose  of 
indifference.  For  it  was  a  pose,  or  a  form  of  self- 
control,  which  you  will.  Probably  Felisi  would  have 
accorded  a  first  glimpse  of  any  of  the  world's  great  capi- 
tals precisely  the  same  need  of  outward  appreciation 
she  now  bestowed  on  Strode's  yacht. 

And  why  should  it  be  otherwise,  even  in  the  fifteen- 
year-old  daughter  of  an  obscure  chief  in  the  South  Pa- 
cific Islands?  If  you  had  moved  in  civilized  circles  for 
a  space;  if,  that  is,  you  had  dispensed  imitation  pink 
coral  on  the  wharves  of  Suva  to  every  passenger  with 

106 


THE  LONELY  LADY  107 

a  heart  between  San  Francisco  and  Sydney,  and  ob- 
served the  ways  of  the  white  man  as  had  Felisi  of  Lu- 
ana,  you  would  know  that  the  display  of  vulgar  curi- 
osity is  detrimental  to  dignity. 

You  would  know,  also,  that  the  correct  thing  to  do  is 
to  saunter  in  leisurely  fashion  as  far  as  the  palm  groves, 
only  breaking  into  a  run  when  they  obscure  you  from 
the  public  gaze.  Thereafter,  it  is  permissible  to  race 
beachward  with  hair  and  sulu  streaming  in  your  wake, 
and  load  your  canoe  with  the  first  mangoes  and  mummy 
apples  to  hand  as  a  valid  excuse  for  prying  into  other 
people's  affairs.  In  any  case,  that  is  what  Felisi  did. 

What  it  must  be  to  have  all  the  money  in  the  world, 
and  therefore  all  the  happiness!  That  is  what  she 
tried  to  imagine  squatting  in  the  canoe  amongst  her 
wares,  and  staring  wide-eyed  at  the  beautiful  lady  who 
stood  alone  at  the  yacht's  after  rail  looking  out  over 
the  water.  To  own  a  floating  palace  of  white  and  gold, 
and  go  drifting  over  the  world  to  every  scene  of  pleasure 
and  excitement!  To  know  nothing  of  taro  patches 
tended  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  teeming  fish  traps,  and 
exacting  rela- 
tives requiring 
obedience  and 
support !  Felisi 
sighed. 

And  curiously 
enough  Mrs. 
Strode    chanced 
to  sigh  at  much  the  same  moment  as  she  leant  over  the 
yacht's  rail  watching  an  outrigger  canoe  and  its  diminu- 


108  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

tive  bronze  occupant  rising  and  falling  on  the  gentle  swell. 
What  it  must  be  to  have  nothing,  and  therefore  happi- 
ness! To  live  in  an  earthly  paradise  and  a  sulu.  To 
know  nothing  of  the  fetish  of  civilization.  To  be  some- 
thing more  than  an  automaton  to  the  man  you  love, 
even  though  he  be  your  husband.  .  .  . 

Such  was  the  trend  of  Mrs.  Strode's  conjectures  until 
interrupted  by  unmistakable  signals  from  the  canoe: 
two  arms  upheld,  a  mango  in  the  hand  of  each,  and  a 
small,  clear  voice  coming  over  the  water:  "You  want 
'im  mango,  lady?" 

"Good  gracious,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Strode,  "the  child 
speaks  English!  Yes,"  she  called,  "come  alongside! 
Parks,  have  you  any  money?" 

A  steward,  who  seemed  to  have  appeared  noiselessly 
from  nowhere,  fumbled  in  his  pocket  amongst  the  sad 
remains  of  last  night's  poker,  and  with  some  diffidence 
produced  sixpence. 

"If  you'll  pardon  me,  madam,"  he  warned  in  a 
note  of  deferential  confidence,  "the  fruit  brought  horf 
in  the  bum-boats  is  'igh  as  to  price,  and  not  to  be 
relied  on." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Strode,  "you're  not  at  Port 
Said  or  Colombo  now,  you  know,  Parks.  Besides,  I 
don't  want  the  fruit." 

Exactly  what  it  was  Mrs.  Strode  did  want  was  hard 
to  determine,  so  Parks  retired  gracefully.  For  some 
time  she  leant  over  the  rail  looking  down  into  an  up- 
turned elfin  face,  and  noting  the  perfect  teeth,  the 
velvety  skin,  the  brown  wistful  eyes,  and  above  all  the 
wealth  of  blue-black  hair — assimilating,  in  short,  all 


THE  LONELY  LADY  109 

those  qualities  in  Felisi  of  Luana  that  helped  so  ma- 
terially in  the  sale  of  imitation  pink  coral — or  mangoes. 

"You  dear!"  she  cried  suddenly.  "Come  aboard  at 
once." 

And  Felisi  came. 

Somewhere,  and  about  an  hour  later,  it  struck  two 
bells,  and  the  mellow  boom  of  a  gong  followed  soon 
afterward  announcing  lunch  aboard  the  Ajax,  but  Mrs. 
Strode  was  otherwise  engaged.  To  be  exact,  she  was 
undergoing  a  course  of  instruction  in  making  cigarettes 
of  dried  banana  leaf,  and  finding  it  absorbing.  Some- 
how, this  quaint  little  creature  out  of  the  world's  end 
had  taken  hold  of  Mrs.  Strode.  Listening  to  its 
glib  jargon,  watching  its  deft,  unconsciously  graceful 
movements,  and  trying  to  plumb  the  admixture  of 
crass  ignorance  and  subtle  wisdom  that  appeared  to 
constitute  its  mind,  gave  this  lonely  woman  keener 
pleasure  than  she  had  experienced  for  many  a  day. 

" .  .  .  and  you  must  take  me  out  to  the  reef," 
she  told  Felisi;  "just  us  two  in  the  canoe,  and  show  me 
how  to  do  things — spear  fish,  and  stay  under  water  two 
minutes." 

Felisi  appeared  unimpressed  with  the  possibilities  in 
this  direction. 

"You  no  spear  fish,"  she  retorted,  surveying  her 
luxurious  surroundings  as  though  in  some  manner  they 
might  be  held  responsible  for  their  owner's  inability  to 
do  anything.  "You  no  stay  under  water  one  minute." 

"Indeed?"  Mrs.  Strode  was  piqued.  It  was  not 
often  of  late  she  had  been  told  there  were  things  she 
could  not  do.  It  took  her  back  to  the  days — not  so 


110  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

far  distant — when,  as  the  only  sister  of  four  unruly 
brothers  she  had  seldom  been  proof  against  "the  dare." 
"We'll  see,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of  asperity. 
"There  may  be  more  in  me  than  meets  the  eye — do 
you  understand?" 

Felisi  nodded  gravely,  a  method  of  response  she 
had  found  effective  when  not  understanding  in  the 
least. 

"Then  that's  settled,"  said  the  beautiful  lady. 
"You  come  alongside  with  the  canoe  early  to-morrow 
morning,  and  we'll  make  a  day  of  it,  you  and  I — oh,  the 
mangoes,"  she  added,  proffering  Parks's  sixpence. 

Felisi  refused  it  bluntly. 

"You  no  want  'em  mangoes,"  she  affirmed. 

"You  seem  to  know  more  about  me  than  I  do  my- 
self," said  Mrs.  Strode;  "what  makes  you  think  I  don't 
want  the  mangoes?" 

"Me  hear  you." 

"Oh,  you  heard  me,  did  you?  I  expect  you  hear  a 
good  deal  that  you're  not  supposed  to." 

"Me  hear  plenty,"  admitted  Felisi  non-committally. 

"If  you're  not  the  quaintest  infant!"  laughed  Mrs. 
Strode.  "But  you'll  take  the  money,  won't  you?" 

Felisi  shook  her  head. 

"You  no  want  'em  mangoes,  me  no  want  'em 
money,"  she  explained  lucidly. 

"I  see,"  mused  Mrs.  Strode.  "Parks,"  she  added, 
turning  to  the  steward  who  had  again  materialized, 
"your  good  money  has  been  spurned.  I  think  I  told 
you  we  were  not  at  Port  Said  or  Colombo." 

"Yes,  madam.     Luncheon  has  been  served  twenty 


THE  LONELY  LADY  111 

minutes,  madam,"  recited  Parks,  studiously  avoiding 
Felisi's  childlike  gaze. 

"Is  Mr.  Strode  down  yet?" 

"Not  yet,  madam." 

"He  has  been  told — as  well  as  the  gong?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

Mrs.  Strode  sighed. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.     "I'll  come  directly." 

But  she  did  not. 

"I  suppose  some  day  you'll  have  a  husband,"  she 
said,  turning  to  her  guest. 

Felisi  nodded  with  every  appearance  of  delight  at  the 
prospect. 

"They're  not  all  like  that,  you  know,"  warned  Mrs. 
Strode,  with  a  whimsical  half-smile.  "But  I  expect  you 
manage  them  differently.  .  .  ." 

"Husband  all  right,"  defended  Felisi  stoutly. 

"Sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Strode.  A  glint  of  mis- 
chief, never  very  far  distant,  came  into  her  eyes. 
"Would  you  like  to  see  mine?"  she  suggested  suddenly. 

There  was  apparently  nothing  in  life  Felisi  preferred. 

"You  come  along  here,"  said  Mrs.  Strode,  leading 
the  way  over  the  cocoanut  matting  of  the  deck,  "and 
up  these  funny  little  stairs,  and  round  here,  and  across 
this  bridge,  and  at  last  you  come  to  the  hutch  where 
Bunny  lives." 

Felisi  beheld  a  white  deck  house,  replete  with  highly 
varnished  doors  and  glittering  brass  portholes. 

"You  see,"  continued  Mrs.  Strode,  "he  is  right 
away  from  everyone  here,  and  that  is  what  Bunny 
likes." 


112  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"All  the  time?" 

"Very  nearly,"  said  Mrs.  Strode  cheerfully.  "Go 
and  see  what  you  think  of  him." 

Felisi  stood  on  tiptoe  to  peer  through  one  of  the  port- 
holes, a  proceeding  at  which  she  was  something  of  an 
adept.  Within  were  books,  seemingly  thousands  of 
them,  filling  three  walls  of  the  room  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing. Along  the  fourth  ran  a  bench  littered  with 
stones,  lumps  of  coral,  and  inexplicable  instruments; 
and  under  the  skylight,  at  a  desk  equally  littered  with 
papers,  sat  a  large  blond  man  in  a  dressing  gown 
writing  assiduously.  He  looked  kind.  Felisi  had 
studied  various  samples  of  the  genus  turaga,  and  this 
one  appeared  well  up  to  standard.  But She  re- 
turned to  Mrs.  Strode  for  further  enlightenment. 

"Bunny  all  right,"  she  announced,  by  way  of  en- 
couragement. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  him,"  said  Mrs.  Strode. 

"An' you?" 

Mrs.  Strode  pursed  her  lips  and  looked  out  over  the 
sea. 

"As  much  as  I  see  of  him,"  she  confessed.  "You 
see,"  she  went  on  in  explanatory  vein,  "he  is  really  a 
great  man,  and  came  all  this  way  to  find  out  things 
about  the  world — your  world.  You  think  it  beautiful 
and  pleasant  to  live  in,  and  that's  enough  for  you — and 
me;  but  it  isn't  enough  for  him.  He  likes  to  find  out 
why  it's  beautiful  and  pleasant,  what  it's  made  of,  and 
who  lived  in  it  before  we  did;  then  he  goes  into  the 
hutch  and  puts  it  all  into  a  book." 

Felisi  listened  enthralled.     The  beautiful  lady  was 


THE  LONELY  LADY  113 

surpassing  herself;  but  nothing  that  she  said  disguised 
or  clouded  for  one  instant  the  main  issue,  which  to  the 
philosopher  of  Luana  was  as  clear  as  day :  the  beautiful 
lady  was  also  a  lonely  lady. 

"Too  much  'utch,"  she  commiserated  solemnly. 
Whereat  Mrs.  Strode  was  consumed  with  silent  laugh- 
ter, and  hustled  her  toward  the  companion. 

"You'd  better  run  along  now,"  she  warned;  "I'm 
going  to  fetch  Bunny  out,  and  he's  rather  fierce  some- 
times." 

But  Bunny  proved  unusually  tractable  that  morn- 
ing. He  turned  as  his  wife  entered  with  a  vaguely 
apologetic  smile. 

"Ah,  yes,  of  course,"  he  murmured,  and  proceeded 
to  change  his  dressing  gown  for  a  duck  jacket.  "Of 
course,"  he  added  with  emphasis,  though  apropos  of 
nothing  tangible. 

Mrs.  Strode  stood  looking  out  through  an  open  port. 

"You  needn't  hurry,"  she  said.  "We're  only  half 
an  hour  late." 

"Ah,  I'm  sorry,  my  dear,"  Mr.  Strode  crossed  to  a 
cabinet  washstand,  "but  I'm  just  beginning  to  see 
daylight — just  beginning.  We're  now  in  the  Lau 
Group,  and  if  the  formations  tally  my  theory's  proved 
— proved,"  he  repeated,  vigorously  bespattering  the 
carpet  with  soapsuds.  "There's  no  end  to  this  thing- 
no  end.  .  .  ." 

Apparently  there  was  not.  Mrs.  Strode  had  suffered 
it  for  a  considerable  period,  tried  to  resign  herself  to  it, 
and  failed.  To  be  ousted  by  a  theory!  Yet  that  was 
what  it  amounted  to.  To  some  women  it  would  have 


114  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

meant  little  more  than  an  early  boredom,  followed  by 
diversion  sought,  and  probably  found,  elsewhere,  but 
unfortunately  Mrs.  Strode  was  not  of  that  type.  She 
had  made  the  mistake  of  marrying  John  Strode  because 
she  loved  him. 

This  complete,  almost  fanatical  subjugation  to  an 
idea  was  a  disease,  she  had  decided  during  her  long 
self-communings,  as  much  a  disease  as  any  other,  but 
less  susceptible  to  treatment  in  that  the  patient  was 
unaware  of  its  presence.  No  one  would  have  been 
more  surprised  or  distressed  than  John  Strode  had  he 
guessed  that  he  was  causing  his  wife  one  moment's 
unhappiness;  yet  she  lived  in  the  knowledge  that  she 
was  no  more  to  this  man  of  her  choice  than  if  she  had 
never  been  .  .  . 

The  following  morning,  soon  after  a  blood-red  sun 
had  climbed  out  of  the  sea,  a  canoe  shot  from  the  Ajax's 
lee  and  headed  for  the  barrier  reef. 

To  Mrs.  Strode,  paddling  joyfully  in  the  bows  clad  in 
a  boy's  bathing  suit  and  a  kimono,  the  world  was  young 
that  morning  and  full  of  promise.  Why  was  it  ever  nec- 
essary to  do  anything  else  than  speed  over  blue  water, 
with  spindrift  lashing  the  face,  and  the  deep-toned 
roar  of  surf  filling  the  universe  and  drowning  all  care 
like  an  opiate?  This  was  life,  she  told  herself  exult- 
antly, the  rest  a  pitiable  pretence. 

Into  the  very  heart  of  the  green-bellied  combers  it 
seemed  they  were  heading,  until  the  laughing  child  of 
nature  at  the  steering  paddle  swerved  the  canoe  as  by 
a  miracle  into  a  narrow  pass,  and  through  it  to  the 
open  sea.  Here,  without  pause,  it  turned  in  its  own 


THE  LONELY  LADY  115 

length  and,  lifting  to  the  swell  of  deep  waters,  bore 
down  upon  the  reef.  There  was  a  momentary  check, 
a  soaring  as  through  space,  and  the  canoe,  borne  on  a 
cascade  of  foam,  shot  to  rest  on  the  still  waters  of  the 
Lagoon. 

Mrs.  Strode  had  leapt  Luana  reef. 

"Again!"  she  cried. 

But  best  of  all  she  loved  the  quiet  places,  unfathom- 
able rock  pools  immune  from  the  busy  surf,  and  beset 
with  coral  islets,  archways,  and  caves.  Here  it  was 
possible  to  plunge  into  an  unknown  world  and,  with 
Felisi's  hand  tight  clasped  in  hers,  explore  its  mysterious 
labyrinths  as  long  as  breath  would  last.  Then  came 
the  respite,  prone  at  the  water's  edge,  looking  down 
into  the  cool  green  depths  with  their  swaying  weed 
and  rainbow-tinted  fish: 


'Why  plan  and  strive  and  plan  again 
While  all  things  earthly  pall? 

What  goal  at  last  will  you  attain? 
Come  down  and  end  it  all." 


chanted  Mrs.  Strode,  in  a  low  contralto,  and  Felisi 
called  for  more,  but  of  a  sudden  the  lonely  lady  had 
fallen  silent. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused,  still  staring  downward  with 
a  strange  fixity;  "I  wonder  what  he  would  do.  .  .  ." 

And  Felisi  wondered  too.     It  was  a  weakness  of  hers. 

About  two  o'clock  that  day  John  Strode  became 
aware  of  a  difference.  There  is  no  other  way  of  put- 


116  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

ting  it — a  vaguely  disturbing  element,  if  you  will — in 
his  usually  preoccupied  existence. 

The  hutch  was  hot;  but  it  was  not  that.  He  tried  to 
ignore  the  annoyance,  but  failed.  He  thrust  it  from 
him,  but  it  returned  with  maddening  persistence. 
Finally,  and  after  a  supreme  effort  at  concentration,  he 
turned  abruptly  in  the  swivel  chair,  crossed  the  room, 
and  stood  looking  in  bemused  fashion  through  one  of 
the  ports. 

A  cloud  of  gannets  flecked  the  intense  blue  of  the 
sky,  dropping  now  and  again  like  stones  upon  their 
prey.  The  sea,  slashed  by  the  white  ribbon  of  the 
barrier  reef,  rose  and  fell  as  though  breathing  in  its 
sleep.  The  eternal  sun  shone  down.  Clearly  the  dis- 
turbing influence  was  not  there. 

Strode  turned  from  the  port  with  a  frown  of  baffled 
annoyance. 

Then,  one  by  one,  sluggishly,  the  small  realities  of 
life  began  to  filter  into  his  consciousness.  He  glanced 
at  his  watch.  It  had  stopped — because  he  had  for- 
gotten to  wind  it.  He  was  hungry.  Why?  Perhaps 
he  had  had  nothing  to  eat.  What  about  break- 
fast .  .  .  and  lunch?  It  must  be  after  noon. 
Curious !  He  grunted,  flung  open  the  door  of  the  hutch, 
and  went  on  deck. 

His  train  of  thought  had  been  derailed  by  hunger; 
that  was  what  had  happened  to  John  Strode.  But  he 
was  only  aware  of  the  accident's  curious  effect  upon 
himself.  It  seemed,  as  he  wandered  over  the  yacht, 
that  he  had  just  returned  from  a  long  journey.  Every- 
thing was  familiar  yet  strangely  new;  and  something 


THE  LONELY  LADY  117 

was  lacking;  he  felt  it,  but  his  mind  refused  to  supply 
the  deficiency.  In  the  saloon  he  mixed  himself  a  stiff 
brandy  and  soda. 

"Befuddled!"  he  muttered  angrily.  "Must  have 
been  at  it  longer  than  I  thought." 

Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  his  face  in  a  mirror,  and 
went  nearer  to  examine  it  more  closely.  There  were 
shadows  under  the  eyes  that  emphasized  their  already 
unnatural  brilliance;  the  cheeks  were  hollow,  and  the 
beard  disgracefully  unkempt.  Strode  stretched  his 
clenched  fists  above  his  head  until  his  joints  cracked 
with  the  unaccustomed  tension,  and  as  he  did  so, 
caught  reflected  in  the  glass  a  glimpse  of  the  far  corner 
of  the  saloon  behind  him — a  standard  lamp  with  a  rose 
shade,  a  guitar  standing  propped  against  it,  and  an 
empty  armchair. 

The  little  picture  conveyed  nothing  to  Strode  beyond 
the  same  aggravating  impression  of  incompleteness. 
He  turned  and  crossed  the  saloon.  Lying  on  the  arm 
of  the  chair  was  one  of  his  own  socks,  a  darning  needle 
caught  in  the  wool.  He  picked  it  up  and  examined  it 
mechanically,  then  dropped  it  with  a  short  laugh,  for 
it  had  told  him  what  was  lacking  aboard  the  Ajax,  and 
to  think  that  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  before  was 
really  rather  amusing.  He  rang  the  bell. 

"Parks,"  he  demanded  of  the  startled  individual  who 
appeared  in  the  doorway  slightly  dishevelled  from  a 
hasty  toilet.  "Where  is  Mrs.  Strode?" 

"Mrs.  Strode  left  early,  sir." 

"Did  she  leave  any  message?" 

"No,  sir." 


118  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"But — have  you  no  idea  where  she  has  gone?" 

"To  the  reef,  I  believe,  sir,  on  a  picnic." 

"Alone?" 

"With  a  young  native  person,  sir." 

Strode  looked  about  him  with  an  expression  of  vague 
bewilderment. 

"And,  Parks." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Why  have  I  had  no  breakfast — or  lunch?" 

"We  have  strict  instructions  that  on  no  account  are 
you  to  be  disturbed,  sir." 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  mused  Strode.  "Then  do  you 
mind  telling  me,"  he  added  with  whimsical  pathos, 
"how  I  ever  chance  to  get  anything  to  eat  at  all?" 

"Mrs.  Strode  fetches  you,  sir." 

"Oh."  Strode  appeared  to  ponder  over  the  matter. 
"Well,  supposing  something's  fetched  to  me  this  time 
by  way  of  a  change,  Parks — cold,  with  salad." 

"Yes,  sir." 

Parks  withdrew,  and  on  rousing  the  cook  from  his 
habitual  and  audible  siesta  to  receive  instructions, 
touched  his  forehead  significantly.  The  cook  heartily 
concurred. 

To  the  accompaniment  of  cold  chicken  Strode  com- 
muned with  himself.  So  he  was  "fetched,"  was  he? 
Somehow  the  word  met  with  his  disapproval.  Rather 
ignominious,  wasn't  it?  How  long  had  it  been  going 
on,  he  wondered?  Nice  sort  of  occupation  for  Stella, 
too.  By  the  way,  what  had  she  been  doing  with  her- 
self for  the  past  few  days — or  was  it  weeks?  He  had 
no  distinct  recollection  of  her  presence,  yet,  yes,  he 


THE  LONELY  LADY  119 

seemed  to  remember  her  at  meals,  the  same  gracious 
figure  at  the  end  of  his  table,  silent,  unobtrusive,  yet 
conveying  a  subtle  air  of  sympathy  for  a  dreamer's 
moods  and  abstractions.  Curious  that  she  should  go 
away  like  that,  without  a  word.  Aggravating,  too, 
considering  that  at  that  particular  moment  he  rather 
needed  her.  Someone  to  talk  to  about  one's  work, 
you  know.  Necessary  sometimes,  or  one  became 
atrophied.  To-day  of  all  days — and  for  so  long — it 
must  be  nearly  three.  Unusually  thoughtless.  Gad, 
wouldn't  she  be  in  a  stew  when  she  learnt  that  he  had 
gone  without  his  breakfast  and  lunch.  .  .  .  ? 

An  hour  later  Strode  was  pacing  the  deck  with  ill- 
concealed  impatience.  He  was  not  used  to  being 
baulked  of  anything,  and  in  the  present  instance  he 
was  aware  of  an  inordinate  and  unaccountable  desire 
to  set  eyes  on  his  wife. 

Afternoon  tea,  served  by  the  implacable  Parks, 
proved  a  dreary  affair,  and  by  five  o'clock  impatience 
had  given  way  to  a  senseless  but  none-the-less  acute 
anxiety.  He  might  go  and  meet  her.  It  would  be  a 
pleasant  surprise.  He  called  for  the  sailing  dinghy, 
and  set  out  for  the  reef.  After  all,  it  was  only  about 
half  a  mile  long,  and  Stella  must  be  somewhere  on 
it.  ... 

The  dinghy  sailed  like  a  witch.  There  was  a  sunset 
to  dream  of — pearl-gray  islands  of  cloud  floating  in 
amethyst.  The  evening  breeze  was  a  cool  caress — 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  Stella.  This  was  absurd !  He 
shouted  lustily  as  he  sailed,  and  presently  from  afar 
came  a  small,  answering  cry.  His  heart  leapt  to  it  in 


120  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

the  most  ridiculous  manner.     What  ailed  him?    He 
did  not  know;  he  did  not  care;  he  had  found  Stella. 

She  was  lying  beside  a  rock  pool  with  Parks's  "young 
native  person",  and  waved  a  greeting  as  he  came 
stumbling  over  the  coral  toward  them. 

"My  dear  John,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  has  hap- 
pened? Ship  on  fire?" 

It  was  hardly  the  reception  he  had  expected.  He 
sat  down  rather  abruptly,  and  tried  to  regain  his 
breath.  Somehow  he  felt  out  of  it,  a  lamentably  gross 
and  mundane  figure  puffing  there  on  a  rock  in  the 
presence  of  this  sylph-like  person  who  was  his  wife. 
It  was  in  keeping  with  all  the  rest  on  this  day  of  strange 
experiences  that  he  seemed  to  behold  her  for  the  first 
time. 

"No,  nothing,"  he  defended  lamely,  "but — do  you 
know  the  time?" 

"Time?"  scoffed  Mrs.  Strode,  with  dancing  eyes. 
"What  have  we  to  do  with  time?"  She  took  Felisi's 
hand  in  hers.  "Perhaps  you  didn't  know  you  had 
married  a  mermaid.  Behold,  oh,  Caliban,  we  are 
about  to  show  off!" 

The  two  figures  slid  beneath  the  water  as  silently  as 
seals.  The  ripples  expanded  in  ever-widening  circles, 
and  were  still. 

At  the  end  of  perhaps  half  a  minute,  which  to  Strode 
seemed  more  like  half  an  hour,  he  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  pool  and  looked  down.  There  was  nothing — 
nothing  but  a  pale  green  abyss  fringed  with  swaying 
weed.  Stella  had  always  been  fearless  where  water 
was  concerned,  he  remembered.  All  the  same,  he 


THE  LONELY  LADY  121 

wished  she  wouldn't  do  this  sort  of  thing.     It  was  dis- 
turbing, and  he  disliked  being  disturbed. 

A  minute  must  have  passed,  and  a  minute  was  a 
long  time,  a  deuced  long  time.  It  could  not  be  good. 
He  must  put  his  foot  down  .  .  .  Strode  dropped 
to  his  knees  at  the  edge  of  the  pool  and  found 
himself  watching  a  minute  fish,  striped  like  a  zebra, 
that  darted  out  from  a  coral  cranny,  and  hovered  like 
a  marine  butterfly  in  the  translucent  water.  A  squid 
trailed  by.  .  .  .  But  this  was  preposterous!  A 
prank?  How  could  that  be?  Stella  was  down  there 
somewhere — somehow.  ...  A  thought  leapt  to 
Strode' s  mind  that  caused  his  unruly  heart  to  stand 
still.  What  if  ...  Absurb!  She  would  be  the 
first  to  laugh  at  his  fears  afterward  .  .  .  but  what 
if  there  were  no  afterward  ...  if  even  now, 
while  he  stared  down  like  a  fool  ....  On  the 
instant  his  mind  was  aflood  with  ghastly  possibilities. 
He  could  not  support  them.  .  .  .  Three  minutes, 
he  would  swear!  The  thing  was  impossible  .  .  . 

ah' 

1 1  n .... 

A  shadow  appeared  in  the  pool,  deep  down,  then  shot 
to  the  surface  like  a  meteor,  resolving  itself  into  a  sleek 
head  that  turned  on  Strode  its  staring,  terrified  eyes. 
It  was  the  native  girl — alone.  The  fact  smote  Strode 
with  the  force  of  a  physical  blow.  For  a  moment  he 
crouched  there,  stunned  into  impotence;  then  without 
word  or  look,  plunged  into  the  pool. 

As  a  dive  it  was  a  poor  performance,  Felisi  decided, 
and  it  soon  became  evident  that  Bunny  could  not 
swim,  either.  For  this  reason  it  took  them  an  uncon- 


122  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

sckmable  time  to  get  him  out;  and  it  seemed  still 
longer  before  his  eyes  opened.  But  the  most  amazing 
thing  to  Felisi  was  the  attitude  of  the  Lonely  Lady. 
With  Bunny's  head  in  her  lap,  and  when  it  was  ap- 
parent that  he  had  suffered  nothing  more  than  the 
thorough  shaking  up  that  he  needed,  she  turned  on 
Felisi  like  a  tigress. 

"Go  away,  you  hateful  child!"  she  stormed. 

And  Felisi  went. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  Paddling  home  in  the  canoe, 
she  tried  to  unravel  the  mystery.  The  Lonely  Lady 
had  "wondered  what  he  would  do.  .  .  ."  Very 
well,  she  (Felisi),  had  taken  the  trouble  to  show  her 
by  the  simple  expedient  of  depositing  her  in  safety  on 
the  far  side  of  a  submarine  archway,  and  returning  to 
note  results.  Were  they  not  satisfactory?  Was  there 
ever  any  understanding  the  ways  of  this  strange  people? 

Felisi  of  Luana  was  afraid  not.  And  in  the  case  of 
Lonely  Ladies,  she  resolved  never  again  to  try. 


MALUA 

THE  floor  of  the  Royal  Hotel,  Malita,  trembled, 
then  sagged,  heralding  the  approach  of  its  pro- 
prietress, Mrs.  Kemp. 

For  a  moment  she  stood — or  as  much  of  her  as  was 
physically  possible — in  the  bar  doorway,  leaning 
through  the  bead  curtains  to  glance  to  right  and  left. 
On  the  one  hand  there  was  apparently  nothing  to  en- 
gage her  attention;  on  the  other,  a  diminutive  figure  in 
a  blue  wrapper  washing  glasses  as  though  its  life  de- 
pended on  it. 

"Will  she  do?"  asked  Mrs.  Kemp. 

"The  best  we've  ever  had,"  replied  the  barmaid, 
without  pause  in  her  adroit  manipulation  of  the  cork 
extractor. 

"Glory  be,  and  let's  hope  it  lasts!"  sighed  Mrs. 
Kemp,  and  faded  like  an  over-substantial  dissolving 
view  into  the  bead  curtains. 

So,  in  Miss  Smith's  own  words,  she  was  "the  best 
they  had  ever  had."  Felisi  paused  hi  the  process  of 
glass  washing  to  digest  this  satisfactory  but  unsur- 
prising'piece  of  information.  It  had  not  been  intended 
for  her  ears,  but  then  neither  was  a  great  deal  more 
that  came  their  way  in  the  course  of  a  day  behind  the 
Royal  bar. 

Would  she  do?    That  had  been  the  question.     But 

123 


124  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

it  gave  rise  to  another  of  far  more  importance  in  Felisi's 
estimation:  would  the  Royal  do?  She  rather  fancied 
that  it  would.  The  somewhat  menial  nature  of  her 
employment  was  amply  atoned  for  by  the  unrivalled 
facilities  it  afforded  of  prying  into  other  people's  busi- 
ness. And  is  there  anything  more  fascinating?  If  so 
Felisi  did  not  know  of  it.  She  blessed  the  happy  con- 
currence of  events — her  father's  desire  for  a  little  ready 
cash,  and  the  Royal's  urgent  need  of  an  assistant  bar- 
maid— that  had  resulted  in  her  transference  from  the 
deathly  dullness  of  her  native  village  to  this  scene  of 
brilliance  and  animation. 

There  were  men,  an  intermittent  stream  of  them, 
who  had  an  obliging  habit  of  discussing  their  private 
affairs,  elbow  on  bar,  within  a  few  feet  of  Felisi's  ob- 
servation post.  There  was  a  piano  which,  in  response 
to  an  inserted  coin,  dispensed  enchanting  noises,  a 
"billiard  room"  (containing  a  decrepit  bagatelle  board) 
from  whence  came  the  staccato  click  of  balls,  and 
forceful  expressions  of  approval  or  annoyance.  In 
short,  there  was  life. 

Also,  there  was  Miss  Smith. 

To  Felisi,  this  dainty,  tactful  little  lady  was  a  never- 
ending  source  of  wonder  and  interest.  No  one  ap- 
proached the  Royal  bar  but  was  met  with  Miss  Smith's 
own  smile,  gracious  as  it  was  impartial.  No  one  in  the 
access  of  the  moment  was  guilty  of  an  untoward  re- 
mark but  she  was  conveniently  deaf,  a  doubtful  action, 
but  she  was  blind.  Indeed,  as  Felisi  soon  discovered, 
there  were  two  separate  and  distinct  Miss  Smiths,  the 
one  of  business  hours,  an  eminently  efficient  mechanism, 


MALUA  125 

and  the  other  of  private  life,  a  human  creature  of  joy 
and  sadness,  laughter  and  tears.  The  first  of  these  all 
Malita  knew  and  respected,  the  second  was  a  phase  so 
jealously  guarded  that  it  is  doubtful  if  any  one  dreamed 
of  its  existence — except  Felisi. 

"Come  in!"  this  latter  Miss  Smith  was  wont  to  call 
in  answer  to  a  discreet  cough  outside  her  bure  across 
the  compound  from  the  ramshackle  hotel,  and  Felisi 
would  enter  another  world. 

Things  were  so  different  away  here.  There  were 
delicately  coloured  draperies,  and  books,  and  photo- 
graphs, and  bowls  of  flowers  that  converted  the  out- 
house (for  such  it  was)  into  a  temple  of  taste  and  lux- 
ury. 

But  of  all  the  differences  in  this  exceedingly  different 
world,  undoubtedly  the  most  striking  was  Miss  Smith 
herself.  Gone  were  such  insignia  of  office  as  a  rolled- 
gold  bangle  above  the  left  elbow,  the  slightly  daring 
silk  jumper,  the  high-heeled  shoes  and  elaborate  coif- 
fure, to  make  way  for  the  simplest  of  wrappers  and 
loosely  coiled  masses  of  dark  hair. 

"Come,"  she  might  say,  "there's  just  time  for  a 
walk  before  supper."  And  they  would  leave  the 
Royal  Hotel,  rearing  its  unlovely  head  above  a  tangle 
of  convolvulus,  and  plunge  into  the  cool  green  tunnel 
of  the  beach  road.  These  "walks,"  as  Miss  Smith 
called  them,  had  become  an  institution.  They  led 
nowhere  in  particular,  and  had  no  definable  purpose, 
but  they  pleased  Miss  Smith,  which  was  the  mam 
point.  And  how  she  could  walk!  Felisi  was  often 
obliged  to  trot  to  keep  pace  with  her.  In  quite 


126 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 


a  short  time  they  covered  undreamed-of  distances, 
exploring  beach,  palm  grove,  and  jungle  as  fancy 
led. 

On  one  occasion  a  narrow  track  leading  from  the 
beach  road  toward  the  sound  of  falling  water  attracted 
Miss  Smith's  attention.  It  led,  as  Felisi  knew,  to  a 
gorge  choked  with  tree  ferns  and  underbrush,  where 
some  time  ago  a  mistaken  old  man  named  Billy  An- 
drews had  attempted  to  grow  vanilla, 
and  failed.  His  bungalow,  in  a  state  of 
advanced  decay,  still  clung  to  the  hill- 
side, held  there  for  the  most  part  by 
creeping  vine. 

Miss  Smith  came  to  a  halt  at  the  edge 
of  the  clearing,  and  gazed  about  her  with 
evident  relish.  There  was  a  waterfall 
high  up  the  gorge,  and  down  below  the 
sea  thrust  a  tenuous  arm  along  the 
valley.  But  what  riveted  Felisi's  atten- 
tion was  a  thin  ribbon  of  smoke  rising 
from  the  lean-to  behind  the  bungalow. 
Was  it  possible  that  someone  had  been 
lured  into  relieving  Billy  Andrews  of  his  white  elephant? 
If  so,  it  was  one  of  the  very  few  things  Felisi  had  not 
heard  about.  What  was  more,  she  would  dearly  like  to 
see  that  someone. 

Her  wish  was  fulfilled  rather  sooner  than  she  ex- 
pected. Miss  Smith  was  still  absorbing  the  view  when, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  crackling  underbrush,  a  man 
broke  from  the  bush  and  came  to  an  abrupt  halt  in 
the  middle  of  the  track. 


MALUA  127 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered;  and  that  was 
all  he  seemed  capable  of  saying  at  the  moment. 

Miss  Smith's  own  smile  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Oughtn't  we  to  be  doing  that?"  she  said.  "We 
must  be  trespassing." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  beamed  the  man. 

"But  isn't  this  your  property?" 

"In  a  way,  yes,  but 

"Well,  then,"  said  Miss  Smith,  commencing  a  stra- 
tegical retreat  down  the  track;  "I  must  apologize. 
Good  evening." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  watching  her  go,  then  burst 
into  incoherent  speech. 

"Oh,  but  I  say,  won't  you — that  is,  what  about  a 
cup  of  tea?" 

Miss  Smith's  momentum  slackened,  then  ceased. 
She  glanced  at  Felisi  and,  seeming  to  find  reassurance 
in  that  direction,  turned  and  retraced  her  steps. 

"You're  very  kind,"  she  said;  "it  sounds  too  good 
to  resist." 

"That's  right,"  encouraged  the  man,  and  led  the 
way  through  a  wilderness  of  empty  corned-beef  tins 
and  what-not  to  the  bungalow. 

"You  must  excuse  all  this,"  he  apologized,  dragging 
the  only  sound  chair  procurable  across  the  rat-gnawed 
veranda;  "I — I've  hardly  got  going  yet." 

"But  I  think  it's  wonderful,"  said  Miss  Smith, 
gazing  steadfastly  over  the  corned-beef  tins  to  where 
the  slanting  sun  rays  touched  the  rolling  expanse  of 
jungle. 

"It  is,"  agreed  the  man,  "until  you  try  to  do  some- 


128  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

thing  with  it;  then  it  reduces  you  to,  well,  this.  .  .  ." 
He  indicated  his  rather  disreputable  appearance  with 
an  apologetic  laugh,  and  leant  on  the  veranda  rail 
looking  down  at  Miss  Smith.  "But  what  seems  a  good 
deal  more  wonderful  to  me,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying 
so,  is  meeting  someone  from  'over  there'  in  the  Malita 
bush.  Have  you  been  out  long?  " 

"Three  years,"  said  Miss  Smith,  with  an  unaccount- 
able heightening  of  colour. 

"Then  perhaps,"  suggested  the  man,  "as  an  old 
timer  you'd  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  what  I'm  supposed 
to  do  with  seventy  acres  of  rock  and  creeping  vine,  a 
cook  that  can't  cook,  and  labour  that  falls  asleep  the 
minute  my  back's  turned." 

"I  know  it's  pretty  hopeless  at  first,"  laughed  Miss 
Smith,  "but  you'll  have  to  do  what  we  all  try  to  do — 
keep  on  keeping  on,  that's  all." 

"I  see,"  said  the  man.  "My  name's  Wade,"  he 
added  abruptly. 

"And  mine's  Smith — Irene  Smith." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  it  was  clear  to  any  one  of  per- 
ception that  in  that  brief  exchange  of  formalities  each 
recognized  the  other  as  a  kindred  denizen  of  another 
world — the  world  of  "over  there."  Felisi  had  seen  such 
things  happen  before  and,  like  the  perfect  chaperon 
that  she  was,  stole  from  the  presence  to  help  a  dis- 
traught cook  in  his  efforts  to  find  an  uncracked  tea  cup. 

"It  is  always  so,"  he  wailed;  "the  guests  come  when 
least  expected." 

"But  are  none  the  less  welcome,"  amended  Felisi. 

The  cook  grunted  non-committally. 


MALTJA  129 

"As  the  daughter  of  my  father,  Chief  of  Luana," 
Felisi  continued  serenely,  "I  have  entertained  very 
many  guests,  and  know  their  ways." 

"Luana,"  mused  the  cook,  pouring  boiling  water  upon 
the  tea,  "I  do  not  seem  to  have  heard  of  Luana." 

"That  is  quite  possible.  Nor  Levuka,  nor  Suva  per- 
haps?" 

"I  have  passed  through  those  places,"  admitted  the 
cook  with  masterly  unconcern,  "on  my  way  to  Sydney 
and  Melbourne." 

Felisi  did  not  so  much  as  flicker  an  eyelash. 

"Sydney  and  Melbourne  are  well  enough,"  she  con- 
ceded, "but  when  one  has  been  Overthere  they  are  as 
naught.  In  Overthere  the  tea  is  served  hi  cups  of  gold, 
and- 

" Enough!"  cried  the  baffled  cook.  "Out  of  my 
way,  infant!"  and  he  hurried  up  the  crazy  steps  to  the 
veranda. 

It  was  not  so  much  tea  that  they  needed  up  there. 

Out  of  her  boundless  knowledge  of  human  nature 
Felisi  knew  that,  and  left  them  to  it.  Besides,  the  cook 
had  called  her  an  infant,  and  such  things  could  not  be 
allowed  to  pass. 

When  she  did  return  to  the  veranda,  it  was  to  dis- 
cover with  satisfaction  that  she  might  have  been  in 
the  moon  for  all  the  notice  that  was  taken  of  her. 

"You  mean,"  the  man  was  saying,  as  he  gazed  rather 
hopelessly  over  his  primeval  property,  "that  I've  bitten 
off  more  than  I  can  chew.  I've  been  thinking  that 
myself  lately." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Miss  Smith  with  a  vehemence  that 


130  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

was  new  to  her;  "I  mean  anything  but  that.  You — 
you  will  chew  it,"  she  insisted  with  a  nervous  little 
laugh.  "Of  course  you  will  if  ...  ." 

"Please  go  on,"  said  the  man  quietly. 

"If  you  make  up  your  mind  to." 

The  man  nodded  his  head  slowly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that's  about  it — a  matter  of  will 
power;  and  will  power  depends  on  incentive.  I  haven't 
much  of  that,  Miss  Smith." 

"There  was  enough  to  make  you  begin." 

"The  necessity  of  doing  something,"  he  admitted 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "to  live." 

"Then  why  isn't  there  enough  to  make  you  go  on?" 

"I  don't  know,"  muttered  the  man;  "I  don't 
know." 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  said  Miss  Smith. 

He  turned  at  that. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  Miss  Smith  seemed  taken  aback  at  her 
own  temerity. 

"Please,"  pleaded  the  man. 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  Smith  with  an  air  of  quiet 
determination.  "But  I  warn  you,  I'm  on  my  hobby." 

"Good!"  said  the  man. 

"And  you  mustn't  mind  what  I  say." 

He  smiled  encouragingly. 

"I've  seen  such  a  lot  of  it,"  she  went  on,  looking 
out  over  the  valley,  "and  I  can't  let  it  pass  when  I  see 
the  symptoms.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  going  about 
with  tracts  and  my  hair  scratched  back " 

"I  prefer  this  method,"  said  the  man. 


MALUA  131 

"Wait  before  you  say  that,"  warned  Miss  Smith, 
"this  is  much  less  excusable,  really.  You  can  crumple 
up  a  tract  and  throw  it  away,  or  light  your  pipe  with  it, 
and  you  can't  very  well  do  that  with  me." 

"No,"  said  the  man.  "No,  I  couldn't  do  that  with 
you." 

"So  really  I'm  taking  advantage  of  your  hospitality." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Quite.     May  I  go  on?" 

He  nodded.     His  eyes  were  fastened  on  Miss  Smith. 

"You're  in  for  a  bout  of  what  we  call  malua,"  she 
said  with  a  certain  deliberation.  "It  means  bye-and- 
bye.  You  feel  you  don't  want  to — just  yet;  so  you 
don't.  And  that's  all  it  amounts  to  at  first — a  slack- 
ening. But  it  grows;  it  grows  until  you  not  only  feel 
you  don't  want  to,  but  find  you  can't.  It  leads  to — to 
almost  anything.  There,"  she  ended  abruptly,  "  is  that 
enough?" 

"Not  quite,"  said  the  man.     "What  causes  it?" 

Miss  Smith  leant  back  in  her  chair  with  the  air  of 
one  who  has  passed  dangerous  ground. 

"Ah,"  she  mused,  "that's  difficult,  difiicult.  There 
are  things  in  these  Islands  that  can't  be  explained,  and 
malua's  one  of  them.  It  is  the  Islands,  that's  all.  I 
don't  believe  we  were  ever  meant  to  come  here.  They 
didn't  want  us.  We  just  came  because  there  was 
money  in  it,  or  because  we  were  no  good  elsewhere,  and 
malua's  their  way  of  paying  us  back.  Oh,  yes,"  she 
added  quickly  in  answer  to  his  unspoken  question,  "it 
attacks  us  as  well  as  you." 

The  man  smiled  down  at  her. 


132  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"I  don't  see  much  evidence  of  it,"  he  said. 

"No?     Well,  I  can  only  tell  you  that  it  does." 

"And  the  cure?"  he  suggested.  "You  mustn't 
diagnose  without  prescribing,  you  know." 

"I  won't,"  said  Miss  Smith.  "There  is  none  that 
I  know  of  when  it  once  takes  hold;  but  there's  preven- 
tion, and  that  is  work — just  keeping  on  keeping  on 
until  you've  made  enough  to  go  away  and  give  it  the 
slip;  then  go  just  as  quickly  as  you  can.  That's  what 
I'm  doing,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "and  it  seems  to 
have  answered,  so  far." 

"You?"  muttered  the  man. 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  short  laugh. 

"You  don't  imagine  I  wander  about  the  Malita  bush 
for  a  living,  do  you?" 

"No,  but " 

"And  such  a  living!  When  next  you  come  to  the 
settlement  run  into  the  Royal,  and  you'll  see  me  in  my 
war  paint." 

"The  Royal?" 

"Yes,  I'm  barmaid." 

The  man  stood  silent. 

"I  thought  that  would  give  you  a  shock,"  she  said. 
"A  nice  sort  of  person  to  be  proselytizing,  am  I  not? 
But  I'm  a  good  barmaid,  so  they  say,  and  I've  nearly 
done — they  pay  well  in  these  outlandish  places;  then 
hey  for  'over  there'!" 

j  "Shock!"  repeated  the  man,  "I  won't  pretend  that 
it  isn't.  It's  the  pluckiest  thing  I've  met  with  in  many 
a  day." 

"And  not  so  plucky  as  you  might  think,"  said  Miss 


MALUA  133 

Smith.  "There's  always  four  feet  of  good  solid  bar 
between  you  and — and  any  one,  besides,  they're  not  like 
that  'out  back.'  It's  in  the  cities.  I  tried  most  things 
before  coming  to  the  Royal,  and  I  know  where  I've 
been  shown  the  most  respect.  Girls  are  beginning  to 
find  that  out." 

"Yes,  but  they're  real  barmaids " 

"And  pray  what  am  I?"  demanded  Miss  Smith. 

The  man  seemed  unable  to  reply.  He  shifted  his 
position  against  the  rail. 

"Somehow  I  can't  imagine  you "  he  began. 

"Well,  come  and  see,"  taunted  Miss  Smith. 

"I'd  rather  not  if  you  don't  mind,"  he  said  slowly. 
"I  prefer  you  as  you  are.  .  .  .  You'll  come  again?  " 
he  said  as  she  rose  to  go. 

Miss  Smith  did  not  answer  at  the  moment,  but  she 
came  again,  as  Felisi  knew  that  she  would.  Indeed, 
the  "walks"  took  a  natural  trend  in  that  direction,  and 
their  effect  was  magical.  Within  a  month  Billy  An- 
drews's  old  place  and  its  new  owner  were  transformed, 
and  as  for  Miss  Smith,  there  was  something  in  her  eyes 
that  had  not  been  there  before. 

Felisi  preened  herself  in  the  knowledge  that  there 
was  only  one  end  to  it  all,  the  eminently  satisfactory 
end  beloved  of  all  good  chaperons — so  that  the  dS- 
nouement  came  as  something  of  a  shock. 

It  happened  on  an  evening  so  still  that  only  the  whis- 
per of  the  waterfall  up  the  gorge  and  the  low-toned 
voices  on  the  veranda  reached  the  ear.  He  put  it 
very  nicely,  Felisi  thought,  and  his  large  brown  hands 
went  out,  covering  Miss  Smith's.  For  a  moment 


134  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

she  sat  quite  still,  then  gently  withdrew  them,  and 
stood  looking  out  over  the  valley. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  in  a  small,  uneven  voice.  "I 

hoped — I  thought Oh,  what  does  it  matter  what  I 

thought?"  she  cried  bitterly.  "It's  mean,  mean,  to 
have  let  it  come  to  this." 

"You  couldn't  help  it,"  said  the  man  quietly,  "any 
more  than  I.  We  belong.  You  can't  deny  it." 

Miss  Smith  did  not  try.  She  stood  there  a  silent, 
forlorn  little  figure  at  the  veranda  rail. 

Presently  her  lips  moved. 

"I  should  have  known  where  it  led — I  knew,  and  did 
nothing.  It's  malua,"  she  whispered,  "malua.  .  ." 

The  dull,  insistent  note  of  a  native  drum  floated  up 
from  the  beach,  reverberating  through  the  gorge,  so  that 
for  Felisi  the  rest  was  inaudible.  But  it  was  vital,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that,  for  by  the  time  the  exasperat- 
ing noise  had  ceased  Miss  Smith  had  ceased  also,  and 
was  hurrying  down  the  bush  track,  leaving  the  man,  a 
figure  of  stone,  staring  after  her. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  For  once  Felisi  was  at  a  loss. 
During  the  days  that  followed  it  meant  little  that  one 
could  detect.  Miss  Smith's  smile  was  never  more  in 
evidence  over  the  Royal  bar.  The  rolled-gold  bangle 
and  other  appurtenances  appeared  in  their  appointed 
time  and  place.  The  hand  on  the  cork  extractor  had 
lost  none  of  its  cunning. 

And  the  man?  Felisi  had  visions  on  that  score.  Day 
by  day  she  waited  on  tenterhooks  for  him  to  descend 
on  the  Royal  bar,  as  she  had  learnt  in  her  mekes  (dances) 


MALUA  135 

that  the  hillsmen  of  old  descended  on  the  beach  dwellers, 
and  carry  off  Miss  Smith  in  spite  of  herself,  in  spite  of 
all — whatever  that  might  be.  But  nothing  of  the  sort 
happened  in  modern  Malita.  Instead,  he  was  seen 
emerging  from  a  low-down  rival  of  the  Royal's  and 
laughing  a  raucous  farewell  to  his  new-found  friends  as 
he  mounted  his  Tongan  pony  unsteadily,  and  cantered 
off  into  the  darkness. 

So,  that  was  the  way  of  it.  ...  Felisi  sighed, 
and  fell  to  glass  wiping. 

It  was  not  until  a  week  of  speculation  had  passed  that 
the  threads  of  this  disappointing  affair  could  again  be 
caught  up  and  woven  into  anything  tangible. 

As  threads,  they  came  in  curious  guise — a  man, 
prematurely  old,  with  cunning  eyes,  a  twitching  mouth, 
and  uncertain  ways.  He  came  during  the  slack  morn- 
ing hours,  when  it  was  Miss  Smith's  custom  to  sit  and 
read  or  do  needlework  behind  the  bar,  so  that  she  did 
not  see  him  at  first.  But  Felisi  did.  His  movements, 
his  very  appearance  somehow  suggested  a  bird  of  prey. 
For  a  while  he  hovered  in  the  doorway,  peering  in,  then, 
of  a  sudden,  swooped  down  upon  the  bar. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps  Miss  Smith  looked  up.  It 
was  ghastly.  The  smile  was  there,  but  transfixed  in  the 
bloodless  mask  of  her  face. 

The  man  spoke.     His  voice  was  low  and  ingratiating. 

"Don't  look  like  that,  my  dear;  one  would  think  you 
weren't  glad  to  see  me."  His  mouth  twitched.  "And 
look  here."  He  leant  across  the  bar,  "Don't  imagine 
that  I'm  going  to  be  the  smallest  bit  of  trouble,  because 
I'm  not.  Wouldn't  interfere  for  the  world."  He 


136  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

looked  about  him  with  evident  approval.  "Who'd 
have  thought,  though — however,  any  port  in  a  storm, 
and  I  expect  it's  all  right — quite  all  right.  By  the  way," 
his  voice  sank  still  lower,  "What's  the  name?" 

In  little  more  than  a  whisper  Miss  Smith  answered 
him. 

"Smith— Miss  Smith." 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  commented  the  man;  "who 
am  I  to  cavil  at  a  name?  I'll  have  just  a  suggestion,  if 
you  please — Miss  Smith." 

And  she  served  him,  though  no  money  changed  hands. 

"That  is  distinctly  better,"  said  the  man,  setting 
down  the  glass,  and  smacking  his  loose  lips.  "What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?"  he  added.  "Make  another 
break  for  it?" 

Miss  Smith  made  answer  like  some  mechanical  in- 
strument. 

"I  haven't  thought.     I  haven't  had  time  to  think." 

"No.  Well,  when  you  have  you'll  let  me  know,  won't 
you?  It  saves  a  lot  of  trouble  and — er,  expense.  In  the 
meantime.  .  .  ."  He  paused,  gazing  speculatively 
across  the  bar. 

Miss  Smith  gave  him  money,  and  flinched  from  his 
outstretched  hand. 

He  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Don't  forget,"  he  said  in  his  soft  voice,  "no  inter- 
ference— no  trouble  of  any  sort — just  me,  where  I  belong, 
that's  all."  And  he  was  gone. 

But  he  returned,  and  kept  returning.  He  haunted 
the  Royal  like  an  insidious  wraith.  One  came  upon 


MALUA  137 

him  at  odd  times,  in  unlikely  places,  doing  nothing,  say- 
ing little,  but  ever  present.  And  at  last  Felisi  saw  him 
enter  Miss  Smith's  bure. 

For  a  time  the  low  drone  of  voices  came  from  within. 
Then  the  man's,  raised  in  horrible  anger,  followed  by  a 
sudden  silence,  and  presently  his  figure  stealing  out  into 
the  compound. 

Without  waiting  for  permission,  Felisi  thrust  open  the 
door  and  went  in.  The  room  was  a  chaos  of  disordered 
and  broken  chattels,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  sat  Miss 
Smith,  vainly  trying  to  hide  a  flaming  wale  across  her 
cheek. 

"You  saw,"  she  said. 

Felisi  nodded.     She  could  do  no  more  at  the  moment. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Miss  Smith.  "Nothing 
matters  now,  except — will  you  do  something  for  me, 
Felisi?" 

She  crossed  a  little  unsteadily  to  the  table,  and  sat 
there  writing  for  a  few  moments;  then  handed  Felisi  a 
note  and  a  bulky  package. 

"Take  these  to  the  man "  she  said,  and  paused. 

"Man  with  no  good  cook,"  prompted  Felisi. 

Miss  Smith  smiled  faintly. 

"Yes,  you  uncanny  child,  to  the  man  with  the  no 
good  cook.  .  .  ." 

Felisi  departed  with  all  the  pleasure  in  life.  But  her 
willingness  to  do  anything  in  the  world  for  Miss  Smith 
in  no  way  appeased  her  own  burning  curiosity.  The 
nature  of  the  package's  contents  was  soon  determined, 
but  the  note  was  another  matter.  They  were  wonder- 
ful, these  thin  bags  of  paper  that  contained  so  little  yet 


138  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

seemingly  so  much!  She  had  seen  people  laugh  over 
them,  and  weep,  and  ponder  for  hours  on  end.  She 
wondered  what  would  be  the  particular  effect  of  the  one 
she  carried — which  meant  that  she  was  determined  to 
find  out. 

That  was  why,  instead  of  folio  whig  the  beach  road, 
she  elected  to  go  by  canoe.  The  track  to  the  landing 
led  past  the  hut  of  Willie  the  half-caste,  and  as  all 
the  world  allowed,  there  was  nothing  Willie  did  not 
know. 

"There  are  certain  matters,  oh,  my  Willie,"  said 
Felisi  squatting  in  his  doorway. 

"You  have  been  a  good  child,"  admitted  Willie. 
"What  now?" 

"I  have  these,"  said  Felisi,  producing  a  handful  of  the 
Royal's  most  poisonous  cigars,  "which  shall  be  yours  for 
one  small  favour." 

"Name  it,"  said  Willie,  his  wise  old  eyes  glinting  in 
the  lamplight. 

"Speak  this  to  me,"  said  Felisi,  "that  I  may  laugh  or 
weep  or  ponder  on  it  as  others  do." 

Willie  twisted  the  note  in  his  gnarled  fingers,  and 
leant  nearer  the  light. 

"But  it  is  not  yours,"  he  pointed  out. 

"That  is  so,"  admitted  Felisi,  "but  you  will  speak  it 
to  me  because  of  these  cigars,  and  because  of  other 
things  that  I  know." 

"And  if  I  open  it  all  will  know  that  it  has  been 
opened,"  he  protested. 

"Are  they  like  that?" 

"How  else?"  demanded  Willie.     Nevertheless,  his 


MALUA  139 

glance  wavered  between  the  steam  rising  from  a  pot  of 
taro  and  the  cigars. 

And  that  was  how  in  the  end  Felisi  came  to  watch 
the  paper  bag  curl  back  and  open  of  its  own  accord,  and 
listened  to  the  droning  voice  of  Willie  the  half-caste  who, 
it  was  clear,  knew  all  things.  The  translation  was 
free  but  adequate: 

You  will,  I  know,  want  to  return  what  I  am  sending  by  the  mes- 
senger who  brings  it.  You  will  think  the  very  sending  of  it  an  in- 
sult, but  when  you  have  read  this  note  perhaps  you  will  understand. 
That  is  what  I  pray. 

"My  small  savings  were  for  'over  there,'  but  all  hope  of  that  is 
gone.  My  husband  has  found  me.  He  will  always  find  me.  There 
is  no  escape,  and  I  am  too  tired  to  fight  any  more.  .  . 

If  you  have  loved  me,  take  this  my  present — he  will  have  it  if 
you  do  not — and  go;  go  now,  before  it  is  too  late.  It  would  make  me 
feel  that  my  work  has  not  been  in  vain.  It  would  make  me  happy 
in  spite  of  all.  Do  this  for  me,  and  cheat  malua. 

The  effect  of  this  effusion  on  Willie  was  negligible. 
He  merely  refastened  the  note,  returned  it,  and  lit  a 
cigar.  But  with  Felisi  it  was  otherwise.  This,  then, 
was  why  people  laughed,  and  wept,  and  pondered — and 
small  wonder!  She  was  pondering  herself  on  the  way 
to  the  landing,  or  she  would  have  seen  who  followed. 

As  it  was  she  had  already  boarded  the  canoe  at  the 
landing  steps  when  a  man's  figure — the  same  that  had 
left  Miss  Smith's  bure — disengaged  itself  from  the 
shadow  of  a  bollard,  and  stumbled  in  after  her.  Taking 
an  involuntary  seat  on  the  nearest  thwart,  it  leered  at 
her  out  of  the  darkness  swaying  gently. 

"Now,"  it  said  in  soft,  slurred  accents;  "now  we  can 
talk,  eh?" 


140  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Felisi  should  have  been  alarmed.  But  she  was  not. 
She  had  seen  men  in  this  condition  before,  and  feared 
them  not  at  all. 

"You  want  talk?"  she  responded  brightly,  and  dip- 
ped her  paddle,  heading  the  canoe  seaward. 

Apparently  the  man  did. 

"I  knew  it  was  there     .     .     .     and  she  gave  it  you 

I    saw     .     .     .     She   gave    it   you    just   to 

cheat  me     .     .     .     Hand  it  over,  kid,  and  you  can  have 

anything  you  fancy.     .     .     .     Hand  it  over  and  save 

yourself  a  lot  of  trouble,  a  whole  lot.     .     .     ." 

He  said  a  great  deal  more.  His  voice  rose  in  threat, 
sank  in  persuasion,  spluttered  in  sudden  outbursts  of 
passion,  but  nothing  that  he  said  had  the  slightest  ef- 
fect on  the  easy  swing  and  dip  of  the  paddle,  nor  on 
Felisi's  thoughts  that  accompanied  them.  There  was 
something  radically  wrong  with  all  this — wrong  and 
ugly  in  a  world  that  should  be  right  and  beautiful.  And 
it  was  so  simple  to  rectify  ...  so  tantalizingly 
simple.  .  .  . 

Exactly  what  happened  was  hard  to  determine,  and 
quite  unnecessary.  The  man's  voice  had  risen  in  a 
querulous  crescendo.  He  was  on  his  feet.  His  out- 
stretched, grasping  hands  were  descending  on  Felisi. 
She  was  sure  of  this — as  sure  as  she  was  that  they 
missed  her  by  several  inches;  that  the  canoe  turned 
neatly  bottom  up,  and  remained  so  for  a  considerable 
time.  But  then  dugouts  are  deplorably  unstable  at  the 
best  of  times. 

Felisi  was  thinking  that  very  thing — amongst  others 
— as  she  paddled  home,  alone. 


THEIR  TROUBLES 

TIME  passes,  even  in  the  Islands.  Felisi  of 
Luana  had  now  reached  the  mature  age  of  six- 
teen. 

And  things  had  happened  during  the  past  year,  drastic 
things  that  have  a  habit  of  changing  the  whole  aspect  of 
life.  No  longer  was  she  called  upon  by  her  father  to  ad- 
venture forth  from  the  family  roof  tree  and  wrest  from  a 
grudging  world  the  wherewithal  to  purchase  such  lux- 
uries as  his  advanced  tastes  demanded.  Such  excur- 
sions were  no  more,  so  that  for  Felisi  the  curtain  was 
rung  down  on  the  thrilling  drama  of  other  people's  busi- 
ness. Henceforth,  she  must  attend  to  her  own.  That 
is  why  we  come  upon  her  engaged  in  nothing  more  ro- 
mantic than  turning  the  handle  of  a  borrowed  sewing 
machine. 

It  came  hard  at  first.  For  the  matter  of  that,  and 
after  eighteen  months  of  eventless  Luana,  it  still  came 
hard  at  times,  and  she  paused  in  her  work  to  gaze  wist- 
fully through  the  doorway  and  across  the  stretch  of 
sparkling  Pacific  that  separated  her  from  the  great 
"outside." 

What  was  happening  over  there,  she  wondered?  Who 
was  now  dispensing  imitation  pink  coral  on  Suva's 
crowded  wharves,  or  lending  a  helping  hand  where  it  was 
needed — and  sometimes  where  it  was  not — in  the 

141 


142  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

multifarious  and  intricate  problems  of  human  existence? 
In  short,  how  was  the  world  continuing  to  survive  with- 
out her?  She  was  sorry  for  it,  as  sorry  for  the  world  in 
its  bereavement  as  she  occasionally  was  for  herself. 
Then  her  glance  would  leave  the  horizon,  and  rest  on 
the  bundle  at  her  side,  and  she  would  sigh  and  return 
to  her  sewing,  persuaded  that  perhaps  all  was  for  the 
best.  It  was  growing,  that  bundle,  and  from  it  she 
derived  all  the  comforts  that  a  nest-egg  brings. 

At  the  moment,  however,  unrest  possessed  her.  A 
white  man  had  come  to  live  at  Luana ;  nothing  less !  And 
what  was  more,  a  white  man  of  an  entirely  new  pattern 
— sparse  as  to  hair  at  the  temples,  almost  blind  to  judge 
by  the  size  of  tortoise-shell  rimmed  sun-glasses  that 
he  wore,  thoughtful  of  countenance,  and  content  to 
sit  in  a  cane  chair  under  a  mango  tree  for  longer 
than  Felisi  had  ever  seen  a  white  man  sit  in  any  one 
place. 

True,  he  occasionally  wrote  letters  with  a  chewed 
pencil  on  flimsy  paper,  and  as  often  tore  them  up  when 
written;  but  for  the  most  part  he  merely  sat  there  in  the 
little  square  of  croton-bordered  garden  before  the  house 
he  had  acquired,  staring  into  vacancy. 

So  much  she  knew  from  casual  observation,  but  what 
of  the  rest?  Who  was  he?  Why  was  he?  In  fact, 
what  about  him?  It  was  still  a  physical  impossibility, 
then,  for  Felisi  to  live  in  the  neighbourhood  of  a  mys- 
tery without  trying  to  solve  it?  It  is  to  be  feared  so. 

Toward  evening  she  found  herself  ornamenting  her 
hair  with  a  red  hibiscus  blossom,  donning  her  most 
striking  sulu,  and  practising  her  smile.  Why?  Well, 


THEIR  TROUBLES  143 

such  things  play  a  more  prominent  part  in  the  elucida- 
tion of  mysteries  than  might  be  supposed.  Besides, 
it  was  necessary  to  fill  the  bamboo  with  drinking  water, 
and  the  path  to  the  spring  led  past  her  new  neighbour's 
abode,  and — and  is  it  not  permissible  to  look  as  at- 
tractive as  one  can,  anyway? 

The  precious  bundle  was  relegated  to  the  care  of  one 
of  her  numerous  relatives,  and  Felisi  set  out.  At  the 
croton  hedge  she  paused  for  breath,  but  was  allowed  to 
proceed  without  so  much  as  a  glance  in  her  direction.  It 
was  strange,  but  not  past  remedy.  On  the  return 
journey  she  came  swinging  down  the  hill,  a  truly  devas- 
tating apparition.  Precisely  at  the  croton  hedge  the 
water  bamboo  needed  readjustment  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  hummed  meke  air.  But  nothing  happened — 
nothing  whatsoever.  .  .  . 

That  was  why  a  few  minutes  later  Garnet  was  brought 
back  from  a  particularly  promising  flight  of  fancy  to 
things  practical  by  a  mango  dropping  fair  and  square  in 
the  middle  of  his  manuscript.  It  was  a  disturbing  oc- 
currence, but  when  he  came  to  think  of  it  the  wonder  was 
it  had  not  happened  before,  considering  the  heavily 
laden  state  of  the  tree  overhead  and  the  litter  of  fruit 
about  the  garden.  This  last  would  have  to  be  attended 
to.  There  were  several  things  that  needed  attending 
to.  ...  And  that  was  as  far  as  Garnet  usually 
got  in  attending  to  them.  But  on  this  occasion  it 
seemed  providential  that  a  native  of  some  sort  was 
staring  at  him  over  the  hedge. 

"Hi!"  he  called.  "You  want  mango?"  He  indi- 
cated the  untidy  garden  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 


144  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

The  "native  of  some  sort"  seemed  unimpressed  with 
the  possibilities  in  mangoes;  or  was  it  that  she  failed  to 
understand? 

"Mango!"  repeated  Garnet,  stabbing  the  air  in  their 
direction  with  the  chewed  pencil.  "Plenty  mango, 
savvy?" 

Felisi  pouted,  then  smiled.  She  was  equally  expert 
at  either. 

"Me  get  you,"  she  said  brightly,  displaying  her  latest 
linguistic  achievement  fresh  garnered  from  an  American 
schooner. 

It  had  the  desired  effect.  Garnet  removed  his  sun- 
glasses, levered  himself  out  of  the  chair,  and  strolled 
over  to  the  hedge. 

"Oh,  so  you  get  me,  do  you?"  he  observed,  also  and 
unconsciously  observing  those  qualities  in  Felisi  of 
Luana  that  he  had  been  intended  to.  "Well,  what 
about  it?" 

He  looked  considerably  younger  without  the  glasses, 
Felisi  reflected,  and  he  had  kind  eyes.  There  was  a 
button  missing  from  his  shirt,  and  a  hole  in  one  of  his 
socks.  A  freshly  crumpled  letter  protruded  from  the 
left  pocket  of  his  duck  jacket.  His  manner  was  of  the 
bluff,  playful  order  universally  adopted  by  white  folk 
in  dealing  with  children,  dogs,  and  natives,  but  it  was 
assumed,  she  decided.  He  was  not  really  like  that.  .  .  . 

"Clear  them  up  and  you  can  have  them,"  he  con- 
tinued. "How  would  that  do?" 

"You  no  like  'em  mango?"  suggested  Felisi. 

"Hate  'em,"  said  Garnet. 

"Me,  too,"  admitted  Felisi. 


THEIR  TROUBLES  145 

Garnet  laughed.  Refreshing  little  person,  he  told 
himself.  Evidently  had  ideas  of  her  own,  and  after 
all,  why  not?  Wonderful  eyes  .  .  .  and  what 
hair,  and  skin,  and  carriage!  But  it  was  the  possibili- 
ties of  a  mind  that  intrigued  Garnet.  What  if  she 
actually  had  one?  And  if  she  had,  what  did  it  harbour? 
Rather  interesting,  that — life  through  a  Kanaka's  eyes. 
Entirely  new  viewpoint.  He  wondered  .  .  .  That 
was  his  trade. 

His  wonder  grew  as  the  sun-drenched  days  passed  by, 
and  each  evening  Felisi  appeared  with  a  reed  basket  to 
relieve  him  of  some  mangoes — never  all,  because  that 
would  have  ended  the  visitations — but  sufficient  to  make 
a  showing  before  she  squatted  at  his  feet,  and  they  in- 
dulged in  a  sort  of  mango  social.  It  was  a  quaint  oc- 
casion, but  they  both  enjoyed  it. 

"What  about  the  Princess  and  the  poor  man?"  sug- 
gested Garnet.  "You  might  let  me  have  that  again, 
will  you?" 

"You  like  'im,  eh?"  questioned  Felisi. 

"Very  much,"  said  Garnet.  "But  there's  something 
wrong  with  the  end.  They  were  drowned,  weren't 
they?" 

Felisi  regarded  him  reproachfully. 

"Them  no  drowned,"  she  said.     "Them  marry." 

"But  how  can  that  be  if  they  dived  together  off  a 
cliff  higher  than  Suva  church  because  the  King  wouldn't 
let  them,  and  never  came  up  again?" 

"Me  no  say  them  never  come  up  again,"  protested 
Felisi  in  injured  tones.  "Me  no  finish." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  murmured  Garnet,  leaning  back  in  his 


146  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

chair.  "Another  powerful  instalment  in  our  next, 
eh?  Well,  fire  ahead." 

"Them  dive,"  proceeded  Felisi  dramatically,  "down 
— down,  an'  never  come  up " 

"There  you  are,"  said  Garnet. 

"Never  come  up  three — six  days,"  continued  Felisi, 
ignoring  the  interruption. 

"Gad,  they  must  have  had  a  pair  of  lungs  on  them," 
came  another  that  met  with  a  like  fate. 

"King  him  think  them  finish,  but " 

"Ah!"  breathed  Garnet. 

"  Poor  man  him  hunt  plenty  turtle.  Him  see  turtle  go 
in  cave  under  sea.  Him  take  Princess  in  cave " 

"And  I  suppose  when  they  did  come  out,  the  King 
was  so  pleased  to  see  his  daughter  again  that  he  made 
the  poor  man  a  chief,  and  let  them  marry?" 

Felisi  nodded  gravely. 

"How  you  know?"  she  demanded. 

"I  have  an  instinct  in  these  things,"  said  Garnet. 

Felisi  decided  it  was  a  disappointing  process  to  re- 
count Island  history  to  people  with  instinct — whatever 
that  might  be.  It  robbed  the  narrator  of  a  legitimate 
and  hard-earned  climax. 

"Fow  now,"  she  announced,  after  sitting  in  silence 
while  Garnet  produced  reflective  smoke  clouds  that 
hung  on  the  still  air  above  his  head. 

"What's  that?"  he  exclaimed,  with  the  sudden 
dread  of  his  species  that  something  was  expected  of 
him. 

"But — I  don't  know  anything,"  he  faltered.  "Be- 
sides, I  come  from  a  cold,  uninteresting  place  where 


THEIR  TROUBLES  147 

princesses  don't  dive  off  cliffs  or — or  do  anything  like 
that." 

"You  write  plenty  letters,"  accused  Felisi  with  seem- 
ing irrelevance. 

"Letters? — Yes,  I  suppose  I  do,"  admitted  Garnet 
on  reflection.  "I  must  write  quite  a  lot  of  letters, 
heaven  help  me!" 

"What  for  you  write  *em?" 

Garnet  pondered  the  matter,  perceiving  that  it  was 
in  truth  his  turn  now. 

"Money,  mostly,"  he  stated  truthfully. 

"Plenty  friend  belong  you,  eh?" 

"A  fair  number." 

"An'  you  write  'em  letter  for  money." 

"In  a  way;  that  is — yes." 

Felisi  relapsed  into  silence.  The  mystery  was  solved. 
She  had  no  idea  that  writing  to  one's  friends  for  money 
was  such  a  remunerative  proceeding. 

There  followed  further  cursory  conversation,  possibly 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  Felisi's  departure,  impeded  by  the 
laden  reed  basket. 

Such  were  the  mango  socials,  and  they  continued 
with  marked  success  for  nearly  a  month.  Then  Gar- 
net's conscience  got  to  work.  There  was  a  calendar  in 
his  house,  an  advertisement  of  the  local  shipping  com- 
pany, and  more  than  once  he  found  himself  standing 
before  it  staring  fixedly  at  a  date  whereon  was  printed 
in  small  blue  letters: 

"S.S.  Levu  arrives  Malita."  The  announcement  had 
the  effect  of  making  him  feel  supremely  uncomfortable. 
It  was  absurd,  but  it  was  so. 


148  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Poor  little  devil,"  he  muttered,  and  strolled  out  to 
the  garden. 

Felisi  was  diligently  eradicating  mangoes.  Garnet 
watched  her.  "What  was  he  to  say  to  her?  How  was  he 
to  say  it?  He  was  probably  her  world,  and  she  would  be 
an  exile  after  to-night.  That  was  what  it  amounted  to. 

A  scene  from  "Madama  Butterfly"  flashed  across  his 
mind,  and  he  found  himself  revising  the  cast  of  charac- 
ters. He  remembered  how  he  had  wanted  to  kick  the 
hero  of  that  opera,  just  as  he  was  mentally  kicking  him- 
self now.  Yet  what  had  he  done?  Nothing  that  could 
account  for  his  present  state  of  mind.  Unintentionally, 
even  unconsciously,  he  had  won  the  affection  of  this 
child,  and  the  realization  of  it  filled  him  with  pity.  How 
was  he  to  tell  her  that  she  must  come  no  more?  Gar- 
net shrank  from  the  ordeal  with  the  repugnance  of  a 
deeply  sympathetic  nature. 

What  a  deal  of  unnecessary  suffering  there  was  in  the 
world,  he  mused.  We  trampled  through  life,  crushing 
the  hope  and  happiness  of  others  like  insects  under  foot. 
It  was  all  an  accident,  of  course,  but  the  result  was  the 
same.  We  passed  on  our  way  unconscious  murderers. 
Yet  there  were  some  in  this  whirlwind  of  a  world  who 
took  time  to  notice  and  to  think,  and  suffered  in  conse- 
quence. Garnet  told  himself  that  he  was  one  of  these. 
He  sighed. 

Whereupon  Felisi,  who  had  finished  the  mango  har- 
vest, looked  up. 

"Him  sick?"  she  suggested,  indicating  the  place 
where  the  lower  half  of  Garnet's  waistcoat  should  have 
been. 


THEIR  TROUBLES  149 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  was  thinking  about  a  story  that 
I  have  to  tell,  and  don't  know  how." 

"You  tell  'em  all  right,"  encouraged  Felisi. 

"Think  so?"  said  Garnet.     "Well,  here  goes!" 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  look  at  her  as  he 
spoke.  Instead,  he  addressed  the  branches  of  the  mango 
tree: 

"There  was  once  a  garden,  a  little  girl,  and  a  man. 
The  man  liked  the  little  girl,  the  little  girl  liked  the  man, 
and  they  both  liked  the  garden,  so  for  some  time  they 
had  a  very  pleasant  time  all  round.  But  outside  this 
garden,  and  creeping  nearer  every  day,  there  was 
a — a  trouble,  a  she  trouble  that  particularly  disliked 
little  girls.  Of  course  the  little  girl  knew  nothing  of 
this  trouble,  but  the  man  knew  it  very  well  indeed — so 
well  that  when  it  was  only  a  day's  journey  from  the 
garden  he  thought  it  best  to  tell  the  little  girl  so  that 
she  could  run  away  and  not  be  troubled  with  the  trouble. 
That  was  why  one  evening  he  made  it  all  into  a 
story  and  told  it  her  while  they  were  sitting  in  the 
garden." 

It  was  some  time  before  Garnet  dared  to  steal  a  glance 
at  his  audience,  but  when  he  did  there  was  something  in 
Felisi's  silence  that  told  him  she  understood.  Then, 
of  a  sudden,  she  was  on  her  feet,  her  body  swaying  with 
excitement. 

"Him  all  right,"  she  said  breathlessly.  "Me  now. 
All  the  same  story — girl,  garden,  man,  trouble — him 
he  trouble,  mine,"  and  with  that  she  turned  and 
fled. 

Perhaps  it  was  as  well,  Garnet  decided,  fumbling  for 


150  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

his  pipe;  but  the  garden  looked  infernally  empty  .  .  . 
and  what  on  earth  could  the  child  mean  .  .  .  ? 

•  Malita  wharf  was  aswarm  with  its  "steamer  day" 
crowd  when  the  Levu  came  alongside.  Garnet  saw  his 
wife  almost  immediately,  and  waved  a  greeting  with 
his  hat  over  the  head  of  the  little  native  woman  in  front 
who  had  a  bundle  securely  spliced  to  her  side  with  a 
crimson  sulu.  This  contained  a  minute  object  in  the 
way  of  babies,  but  apparently  in  proper  working  order 
by  the  sounds  it  produced.  It  was  its  mother,  though, 
that  attracted  Garnet's  attention.  Her  head,  though 
he  could  only  see  the  back  of  it,  was  vaguely  familiar. 
He  looked  again,  and  saw  Felisi  of  Luana. 

Before  the  gangway  was  out  her  husband,  a  bronze 
giant  with  a  grin  that  threatened  to  interfere  with  his 
ears,  had  bounded  onto  the  wharf  and  taken  possession. 
He  examined  his  wife,  and  she  smiled  radiantly;  he 
examined  her  precious  bundle,  and  she  laughed  ecstati- 
cally. 

This,  then,  was  the  nature  of  Felisi's  "trouble." 
Garnet  smiled  as  he  turned  to  meet  his  own. 


MOTHER  -OF-PEARL 

IF  THEY  were  as  progressive  as  they  are  inventive," 
said  the  Professor,  in  his  best  lecture-room  manner, 
"they  would  rule  this  earth  to-day  instead  of  in  a 
few  centuries  to  come.  I  have  a  great  admiration  for 
the  Chinese,"  he  added  magnanimously. 

His  audience,  consisting  of  a  meagrely  hirsute  young 
man,  an  earnest  lady  in  pink,  and  an  elderly  gentleman 
of  funereal  aspect,  grouped  about  the  great  man's  chair 
on  the  promenade  deck  of  the  Mana,  wagged  their 
heads  in  unison.  They  entirely  agreed.  They  would 
have  agreed  to  black  being  a  light  shade  of  puce,  pro- 
vided Doctor  Wigmore  had  said  so.  Was  he  not  head 
of  the  Manderville  Bequest  Research  Party,  that  spent 
more  in  a  month  studying  the  antics  of  the  coral  polyp 
than  would  provide  the  normal  human  with  a  meal 
ticket  for  life?" 

Yet  a  few  yards  distant  Ah  Fang  smoked  on  unmoved. 

"Fortunately  for  us,"  the  Professor  continued, "they 
have  a  knack  of  getting  just  so  far  with  a  thing,  and 
leaving  the  rest  for  others  to  perfect  and  profit  by.  The 
mariner's  compass  and  gunpowder  are  indisputably 
theirs,  and  now — it  really  is  remarkably  interesting — 
ah.  .  .  ." 

His  audience  waited  in  a  state  approaching  suspended 

151 


152  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

animation  while  the  Professor  blinked  thoughtfully  at 
the  Pacific. 

"Yes?"  ventured  the  earnest  lady  at  length. 

"Ah,  yes,"  boomed  the  Professor,  "as  I  was  saying, 
I  saw  some  remarkable  things  on  the  upper  reaches 
of  the  Tai  Tung  Kyang" — it  will  be  noticed  that 
the  Professor  had  said  nothing  of  the  sort,  but  this 
was  an  engaging  habit  of  his — "amongst  others,  the 
manufacture  of  half -pearls,"  he  ended  with  dramatic 
abruptness. 

There  fell  a  momentary  silence,  during  which  it 
might  have  been  noticed  that  Ah  Fang  knocked  out  his 
pipe  and  moved  nearer  on  the  steerage  hatch. 

"Fish  scale  dust  adhering  to  wafer  glass,"  suggested 
the  funereal  gentleman. 

"Not  at  all,"  snapped  the  Professor.  "You  may 
buy  such  trash  on  Fifth  Avenue,  in  Regent  Street,  or 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  I  am  speaking  of  the  genuine 
article.  What  is  a  pearl  but  layer  upon  layer  of  mother- 
of-pearl?  And  so  on  the  Tai  Tung  Kyang  they  take 
the  fresh-water  mussel — it  being  a  hardier  species  than 
the  oyster — introduce  a  pilule  of  prepared  wax — a 
delicate  operation,  by  the  way — and  wait  for  it  to  be 
covered.  In  six  months  or  less  they  have  a  half -pearl 
adhering  to  the  shell  that  it  is  impossible  to  tell  from 
the  real  thing,  except  for  its  foundation,  which  can 
easily  be  hidden  in  a  skilful  setting.  There  is  a  temple 
to  the  discoverer  of  the  process  on  the  Tai  Tung,  and 
those  engaging  in  the  industry  pay  tribute — ah.  .  ." 

Again  the  Professor  lapsed  into  reverie,  and  again  the 
earnest  lady  saw  fit  to  resuscitate  him. 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL  153 

"And  what  is  the  foundation  of  the  true  pearl?"  she 
asked  brightly. 

"A  cestoid,"  he  answered — "a  cestoid  that  enters 
the  digestive  organs  and  sets  up  irritation." 

"And  where  does  the  cestoid  originate?" 

The  Professor  turned  upon  her  his  long-suffering  gaze. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  sighed,  "the  man  who 
knows  that,  and  could  keep  it  to  himself,  would  own  the 
earth,  or  pearls  would  cease  to  be  of  value — one  of  the 
two.  And  now  what  about  that  return  at  deck  golf?" 

Ah  Fang  watched  the  party  move  for'ard  and  proceed 
with  the  utmost  gravity  to  push  blocks  of  wood  with 
a  stick.  Their  conversation,  which  he  understood 
perfectly  after  his  year's  intensive  study  of  their  jaw- 
breaking  language  at  Canton,  had  been  entertaining  and 
mildly  instructive.  It  showed  that  others  were  on  the 
trail — on  the  trail  perhaps  half  a  century  behind  Ah 
Fang.  Undoubtedly  the  Professor  was  an  intelligent 
man,  but  how  he  talked!  How  they  all  talked!  And 
why?  Ah  Fang  gave  it  up,  as  be  bad  so  often  been 
forced  to  give  up  an  explanation  of  this  people's  folly. 

One  thing,  however,  he  thoroughly  understood,  and 
envied  them,  and  that  was  the  Manderville  Bequest. 
With  such  a  backing  what  could  not  he,  Ah  Fang,  ac- 
complish? But  they  did  not  do  things  like  that  in 
China.  Instead,  the  temple  on  the  banks  of  the  Tai 
Tung  Kyang  had  seen  fit  to  send  its  savant  steerage. 
Ah  Fang  edged  still  farther  from  the  unclean  Tamil 
at  his  elbow,  and  relit  his  pipe. 

At  Papeete,  moored  to  the  coral  wall  that  forms  the 
beach,  her  slender  spars  clear-cut  against  a  dark  green 


154  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

background  of  shady  trees,  the  Manderville  auxiliary 
schooner-yacht  Phoenix  awaited  her  distinguished 
passenger.  There  was  no  delay.  A  trim  launch  came 
off  to  the  Mana,  the  Professor  stepped  aboard,  and  half 
an  hour  later  the  yacht  was  heading  for  the  reef  passage, 
with  the  great  man  waving  a  genial  farewell  from  the 
bows.  He  was  conducting  researches  on  an  outlying 
atoll  of  the  group.  His  wife  would  join  him  shortly. 

For  Ah  Fang  matters  were  rather  more  complicated, 
but  when  at  last,  and  after  a  severe  manhandling  by 
over-zealous  officials,  he  was  allowed  to  betake  himself 
and  his  little  camphor-wood  box  ashore,  there  was  no 
hesitation  in  his  movements.  As  though  acquainted 
with  the  place  from  infancy,  he  plunged  into  the  town. 

Papeete  took  no  heed  of  his  advent — Papeete  has 
other  things  to  do  of  an  evening — and,  if  she  had,  it 
would  only  have  been  to  note  that  another  Chinaman 
had  come  to  town — another  of  those  inscrutable,  in- 
dustrious yellow  men  who  are  the  finest  plantation 
labour  on  the  market,  and  the  hardest  but  squarest  nut 
to  crack  in  a  deal. 

Past  the  club,  with  its  inevitable  veranda  full  of 
imbibing  schooner  skippers,  past  the  more  pretentious 
French  and  British  stores,  the  markets — at  this  late 
hour  deserted  and  forlorn — through  the  maze  of  tumble- 
down weatherboard  hovels  emitting  the  indescribable, 
unmistakable  odour  of  a  Chinese  quarter,  Ah  Fang 
wended  his  way,  emerging  finally  on  the  open  spaces 
behind  the  town,  where  the  palm  groves  rise  in  waves 
and  rugged  mountains  loom  against  the  stars. 

Across  a  grass-grown  avenue  of  flamboyants  two 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL  155 

lights  glimmered,  a  green  and  a  yellow.  Ah  Fang  made 
straight  toward  them,  swung  open  the  garden  gate  of  a 
commodious  house  standing  in  its  own  grounds,  and  was 
about  to  ring  the  bell,  when  the  door  opened  and  he  was 
ushered,  camphor-wood  box  and  all,  into  a  brightly 
lighted  room  of  strange  aspect.  The  chairs  and  sofa 
were  upholstered  in  red  plush.  A  heavy  pile  carpet, 
that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  suffered  the  pressure  of 
human  foot,  covered  the  floor,  and  enlarged  photographs 
of  hideous  people  in  gift  frames  bespattered  the  walls. 
Ah  Fang  had  never  before  seen  the  home  of  a  fellow 
countryman  married  to  a  Tahitian  half-caste,  but  he 
saw  it  now.  Also  he  saw  the  parties  to  this  amazing 
but  apparently  happy  union  in  the  persons  of  an  im- 
mensely fat  man  swathed  in  sweltering  broadcloth  and 
a  dainty  little  lady  in  pink  silk.  They  were  Mr.  Lee 
How,  president  of  the  Lee  How  Trading  Co.  Inc.,  and 
his  wife;  moreover,  they  were  the  first  persons  to 
show  Ah  Fang  the  slightest  respect  since  he  had  left 
Canton. 

"We  are  honoured,  Professor,"  said  Lee  How,  bowing 
thrice. 

"That  is  so,"  replied  Ah  Fang,  with  new-found  dig- 
nity, returning  the  salute.  "Shall  we  go  where  we 
may  talk?" 

His  eye  traversed  the  gorgeous  apartment,  coming  to 
rest  on  an  enlarged  photograph,  helped  out  in  crayon, 
of  Mrs.  Lee  How's  mother.  A  telegraphic  glance 
passed  from  husband  to  wife,  causing  the  latter  to  pout 
prettily  and  retire. 

"It  is  the  women,"  said  Lee  How,  glancing  apolo- 


156  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

getically  about  him.  "They  have  their  notions,  and  it 
is  best  to  humour  them/' 

"Is  that  so?" 

"It  is  so  in  this  country,"  affirmed  Lee  How.  "I 
fear  we  grow  out  of  touch." 

"A  pity,"  mused  Ah  Fang,  whose  mind  was  already 
occupied  with  more  important  matters.  "All  is  pre- 
pared?" 

"All.  I  have  lately  opened  a  small  store,  under  the 
name  of  Woy  Tow,  on  the  beach  road  fifteen  miles  out 
of  Papeete.  There  will  be  little  custom,  but  it  will 
serve  its  purpose,  and  shall  be  attended  to  by  a  native 
boy  I  have  engaged.  There  is  ample  living  accommo- 
dation behind  the  store,  and  the  backyard  adjoins  the 
beach." 

"It  sounds  satisfactory,"  admitted  Ah  Fang.  "I 
trust  I  shall  be  able  to  send  a  favourable  report." 

Lee  How  bowed. 

The  next  day  one  of  the  motor  monstrosities  that 
infest  Papeete  conveyed  a  Chinaman  and  a  camphor- 
wood  box  to  the  newly  opened  Woy  Tow  store  on  the 
beach  road.  A  few  scraggy  chickens  strutted  and 
pecked  about  the  veranda  steps.  A  cat  peered  round 
a  corner  and  fled.  Against  a  variegated  background  of 
tinned  foodstuffs  and  brightly  hued  prints  a  native 
youth,  head  on  arms  and  arms  on  counter,  slept  the 
sleep  of  a  Tahitian  at  two  p.  m. 

Ah  Fang  deposited  the  camphor-wood  box  hi  the 
back  room  and  passed  out  to  the  yard  which,  as  Lee 
How  had  said,  adjoined  the  beach.  It  is  doubtful  if 
there  is  anything  more  beautiful  than  the  scene  that 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL 


157 


confronted  him — the  indescribable  colouring  of  the 
shallows  merging  into  the  dark  blue  of  deep  water,  the 
white  ribbon  of  the  barrier  reef,  with  its  thundering 
surf  and  far-flung  spindrift,  that  floated  and  danced  in 
miniature  rainbows  before  the  sun,  and,  back  of  all, 
the  fantastic  outline  of  Moorea.  But  Ah  Fang  saw 
none  of  these  things.  They  were  not  the  affair  of  a 
man  of  single  purpose.  Without 
haste  or  hesitation  he  waded  into 
the  lagoon,  knee,  waist,  chest 
deep,  minutely  examining  its  floor. 
There  were  coral  rocks  and  fronds 
reflecting  a  green,  unearthly  light, 
delicate  weeds  like  a  woman's  hair 
flowing  and  rippling  with  the  cur- 
rent, shells  big  and  little,  propelled  at  amazing  speed 
by  their  hermit  crab  inhabitants,  and  that  was  all- 
all  that  interested  Ah  Fang. 

A  native  girl  waded  by  with  a  cast-net,  flung  it  into 
deeper  water  and  dived,  appearing  presently  with  a 
glittering  fish  between  her  teeth.  She  smiled  at  Ah 
Fang  and  passed  on. 

This  would  never  do,  he  decided,  and  during  the 
week  that  followed  a  gang  of  Lee  How's  minions  was 
engaged  in  the  prolongation  of  the  backyard  fence, 
so  that  it  crossed  the  beach  and  embraced  fifty  square 
yards  of  the  lagoon. 

From  that  hour  Ah  Fang's  private  affairs  became  a 
matter  of  increasing  interest  to  Miri  of  the  cast-net. 
Unconsciously  he  had  fenced  off  the  girl's  favourite 
fishing  ground,  and  must  put  up  with  the  consequences. 


158  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

These  consisted,  for  the  present,  in  an  eagle-like  watch 
being  kept  on  his  every  movement.  Did  he  but  sun 
himself  on  his  strip  of  beach,  then  Miri  knew  of  it. 
Did  he  sit  at  the  window  of  his  room  behind  the  store, 
bending  over  an  instrument  of  polished  brass,  then 
Miri  saw  him.  What  right  had  a  Chinaman,  or  any 
one,  to  take  unto  himself  the  ocean?  None.  What 
was  to  be  done  about  it?  Nothing,  because  nothing 
much  is  done  about  anything  on  Tahiti.  Miri  waited 
and  watched. 

At  dawn  of  a  certain  day,  and  floating  upright  but 
motionless  in  the  still  water,  she  saw  a  heavily  laden 
canoe  arrive  at  the  hated  fence  and  miraculously  pass 
inside.  There  was  evidently  a  door,  but  doors  had 
little  meaning  for  Miri.  With  a  few  effortless  strokes 
she  was  at  the  seaward  end  and  peering  between  the 
bamboos.  Four  men  stood  knee-deep  about  the  canoe, 
unloading  its  contents  into  shallow  water,  while  Ah 
Fang  supervised  from  the  beach.  This  done,  the 
canoe  returned  by  the  way  it  had  come,  and  Ah  Fang 
proceeded  to  sort  his  cargo  with  extreme  care.  It  was 
then  that  Miri  saw  what  he  was  handling.  They  were 
oysters — more  oysters  and  larger  oysters  than  she  had 
ever  seen.  Ah  Fang  took  them  in  armfuls,  waded 
waist-deep,  and  placed  them  in  methodical  rows  on  the 
floor  of  the  lagoon.  Was  the  man  mad?  Miri  had 
seen  many  oysters  taken  out  of  the  sea,  but  not  put  into 
it.  She  gave  the  matter  her  undivided  attention  until 
sunset,  and,  returning  home  empty  handed,  received  a 
severe  reprimand  from  her  chronically  peevish  mother. 

"It  will  be  better  to-morrow."  she  assured  her  irate 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL  159 

parent;  and  it  was.  The  next  day  they  dined  on 
oysters. 

The  process  was  repeated  twice.  It  was  supremely 
simple.  You  merely  tied  the  canoe  to  a  bamboo,  in- 
sinuated your  lithe  little  body  between  two  others,  and 
dived,  remaining  under  water  perhaps  two  minutes. 
During  this  time  it  was  possible  to  collect  an  armful  of 
edibles,  which  you  dumped  into  the  canoe,  and  paddled 
home  singing. 

But  at  the  third  venture  things  happened.  The 
end  of  Miri's  underwater  tether  was  almost  reached,  and 
she  had  turned  to  the  canoe,  when  something  seized 
her  by  the  hair,  something  that  dragged  her  shrieking 
into  the  shallows,  and  she  found  herself  staring  wild- 
eyed  into  the  face  of  an  enraged  Chinaman. 

She  had  never  seen  such  a  thing  before.  It  twisted 
into  gruesome  shapes,  and  emitted  noises  for  all  the 
world  like  a  choking  dog.  In  the  heat  of  the  moment 
Ah  Fang  was  employing  his  native  tongue.  He 
checked  himself  with  an  effort. 

"You  steal  my  oysters,"  he  accused  in  precise  Canton 
College  accents. 

Miri  was  too  frightened  to  notice  that  he  spoke 
English — better  English  than  the  beche-de-mer  she  her- 
self had  picked  up  on  passing  schooners.  But  the 
weight  of  his  hand  on  her  hair  caused  a  glint  to  come 
into  her  mild  brown  eyes. 

"You  steal  my  fish!"  she  retorted,  with  heat. 

Ah  Fang  pondered  the  matter.  Anger  had  died  out  of 
his  face,  and  presently  his  hand  fell  from  the  girl's  hair. 

"That  is  so,"  he  said  quietly.     "Wait." 


160  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Out  of  mingled  surprise  and  curiosity,  Miri  waited. 
Ah  Fang  ambled  up  the  beach  and  into  the  store,  re- 
turning shortly  with  three  labelled  tins  that  she  rec- 
ognized from  afar.  They  were  salmon,  that  doubtful 
delicacy  for  which,  for  some  reason,  your  South  Sea 
Islander  will  barter  his  immortal  soul. 

"There  is  more,"  he  told  her,  placing  the  tins  in  her 
outstretched  hands,  "if  you  do  not  steal  the  oysters. 
You  swim  well,"  he  added  judicially.  "Where  do  you 
live?" 

Miri  nodded  up  the  beach. 

"I  will  call  on  your  father,"  said  Ah  Fang. 

"Papa  belong  me  finish,"  Miri  answered,  without 
emotion. 

"Your  mother  then." 

"Mama  belong  me  plenty  sick." 

"All  the  same,  I  will  call,"  said  Ah  Fang,  and  watched 
his  diminutive  prisoner  swim  for  the  canoe  with  the 
tinned  salmon  clasped  tightly  to  her  breast. 

The  interview  that  ensued  was  short  and  to  the  point. 

"I  wish  to  buy  your  daughter,"  Ah  Fang  informed  a 
lady  of  ample  proportions  squatting  on  the  mats  of  a 
dilapidated  grass  house. 

Miri,  being  the  linguist  of  the  family,  conducted  the 
proceedings. 

"Mama  say  what  for  you  want  buy?"  she  translated 
glibly. 

"That  is  my  affair,"  said  Ah  Fang.  "I  need  assist- 
ance in  the  house — and  outside.  I  am  willing  to  pay 
for  it.  My  leflence  is  the  Lee  How  Tlading  Company 
Incorporated."  He  still  had  difficulty  with  his  r's. 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL  161 

Following  this  announcement,  the  lady  on  the  mats 
commenced  to  sway  and  croon  by  way  of  displaying 
her  grief  at  the  prospect  of  parting  with  so  valuable  a 
daughter.  Ah  Fang  moved  toward  the  door,  where- 
upon the  swaying  ceased. 

"How  much?"  Miri  translated,  though  her  mother 
had  not  spoken. 

"I  will  pay  one  hundred  dollars  down,"  replied  Ah 
Fang,  "and  your  mother  shall  be  supplied  with  food 
and  clothing  from  the  store." 

The  swaying  recommenced.  There  was  a  pause, 
during  which  the  boom  of  the  surf  and  the  rattle 
of  screw  pine  leaves  held  sway.  Then  Miri's  mother 
spoke. 

"Mama  say  you  marry,  all  right,"  announced  Miri,  a 
business-like  tang  in  her  usually  soft  voice. 

Ah  Fang  gazed  straight  before  him  for  perhaps  half  a 
minute,  then  turned  to  her  with  the  hint  of  a  smile 
twisting  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"It  shall  be  as  your  mother  wish,"  he  conceded 
blandly. 

To  Ah  Fang  the  days  immediately  following  this 
interview  constituted  an  accumulative  nightmare.  Be- 
ginning with  incomprehensible  alarms  and  excursions 
that  interfered  abominably  with  one's  work,  they 
dragged  their  weary  length  through  feastings,  music, 
and  dancing  to  a  culminating  ceremony  that  defies 
faithful  description.  Yet  he  suffered  it  all  with  out- 
ward calm.  Such  buffooneries  were  evidently  as  nec- 
essary to  these  people  as  Miri  was  to  himself.  He  let 


162  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

it  go  at  that.  It  must  be  remembered  that  Ah  Fang 
was  a  man  of  single  purpose. 

Miri  found  him  so,  and  would  not  have  had  him 
otherwise.  Provided  she  dedicated  a  certain  portion 
of  each  day  to  the  cultivation  of  oysters,  her  time  was 
her  own,  as  also  were  the  contents  of  the  Woy  Tow 
store,  where  she  revelled  in  tinned  salmon  and  pink 
silk.  Before  a  fortnight  had  passed,  red  plush  began 
to  make  its  appearance  in  the  largest  of  the  two  rooms 
at  her  disposal.  Miri  was  content. 

So  also  was  Ah  Fang.  The  discomforts  he  had 
lately  endured  were  amply  atoned  for  by  an  amphibious 
wife.  It  was  now  possible  to  plant  the  oysters  at 
greater  depth,  and  retrieve  them  by  means  of  a  cunning 
brown  hand  instead  of  the  clumsy  net.  Even  in  their 
treatment  Miri  came  to  have  her  uses.  Her  nimble 
fingers  soon  became  no  less  deft  than  Ah  Fang's  at 
opening  the  shell  in  shallow  water  with  a  finely  tapered 
wooden  wedge,  and  by  such  minute  degrees  that  the 
delicate  fish  remained  unharmed.  But  beyond  this 
stage  in  the  proceedings  she  was  not  allowed  to  go. 
Thereafter  Ah  Fang  took  the  shells  one  by  one  to  his 
stuffy  room  behind  the  store,  and  conjured  with  them 
in  strict  privacy. 

What  it  was  all  about,  Miri  had  no  notion,  and  at 
times  she  wondered — for  instance,  when  the  Lee  How 
canoe  arrived,  towing  a  half-dead  shark  in  its  wake, 
to  be  incarcerated  in  a  fish  fence  partition  of  its  own, 
or  when  Ah  Fang  almost  hurried  up  the  beach  with 
weird  marine  messes  to  be  subjected  to  the  brass  in- 
strument that  for  ever  glittered  at  the  back  window. 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL  163 

But  something  stayed  her  from  inquiry,  perhaps  the 
knowledge  that  it  would  be  futile,  perhaps  the  memory 
of  her  husband's  face  when  he  dragged  her  from  the  sea 
by  her  hair.  For  the  most  part,  Miri  was  content  to 
add  trophies  to  her  parlour,  or,  with  her  strangely  re- 
juvenated mother,  parade  Papeete  beach  of  an  evening 
in  imitation  silk  stockings,  to  the  lasting  envy  of  rela- 
tives and  friends.  At  such  times  the  most  that  they 
could  say  was:  "Where  is  your  husband?"  To 
which  Miri  would  reply  with  a  touch  of  hauteur  and 
scathing  emphasis  on  the  pronoun:  "My  husband 
works." 

And  she  spoke  truth.  None  but  a  fanatic — or  a 
Chinaman — could  have  laboured  with  the  whole- 
souled  concentration  of  Ah  Fang.  Yet  he  had  his 
softer  moments,  when  he  would  sit  in  state  and  ex- 
treme discomfort  on  the  parlour  sofa,  and  occasionally 
speak. 

"You  have  done  well,"  he  told  his  wife  on  one  of 
these  rare  occasions.  "You  will  make  holiday  with 
your  mother.  There  will  be  a  motor  car,  and  you  will 
visit  your  fliends  for  a  week." 

Now,  if  there  is  one  thing  calculated  to  elevate  the 
aspiring  Tahitian  to  the  seventh  heaven,  it  is  sitting 
back  in  a  bone-shaking  machine  and  smothering  less 
fortunate  acquaintances  with  dust.  Miri's  eyes  spar- 
kled, as  Ah  Fang  had  known  they  would. 

"An'  you?"  she  suggested,  when  the  first  ecstasy  had 
passed. 

"I  shall  stay,"  said  Ah  Fang,  and  fell  to  filling  his 
glass  pipe,  a  sure  indication  that  the  matter  was  ended. 


164  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

In  due  course  the  hour  and  the  car  arrived,  and  with 
equal  precision  departed,  together  with  Miri  and  her 
mother,  a  bored  half-caste  chauffeur,  a  case  of  peach 
brandy,  and  twenty  tins  of  tropically  freckled  ciga- 
rettes. 

Miri  found  it  pleasant  to  sit  thus  behind  a  purring 
monster  that  devoured  the  white  ribbon  of  the  beach 
road  mile  on  mile  .  .  .  Ah  Fang  was  kind.  They 
would  visit  the  Maevatuas  and  the  Teahis,  and  show 
them  life  as  it  should  be  lived.  ...  Or  was  it  that 
Ah  Fang  wished  to  be  rid  of  her?  She  had  never 
thought  of  that.  How  the  wind  whistled,  and  the  car 
rocked,  and  the  lagoon  streamed  by.  .  .  .  What 
was  this  secret  that  stood  between  Ah  Fang  and  her- 
self? There,  they  had  nearly  accounted  for  a  chicken! 
How  it  scuttled  and  clucked  out  of  their  all-conquering 
path!  .  .  .  And  how  long  would  it  remain  a  se- 
cret? Just  so  long  as  she  (Miri)  allowed  it.  Why 
did  she  allow  it?  Because  she  was  afraid.  Of  what 
was  she  afraid?  She  did  not  know — unless  it  was  Ah 
Fang.  She  laughed  and  nodded  to  old  Roo,  who  stood 
satisfactorily  agape  in  a  cloud  of  dust  as  they  swept  by. 

Thus  did  the  purring  of  the  road  devourer  stimulate 
thought,  so  that  by  the  time  it  had  reached  the  first 
road  house  Miri  had  reached  a  conclusion.  She  could 
never  rest  until  she  knew.  Things  came  to  her  like 
that,  of  a  sudden,  out  of  a  clear  sky,  and  with  all- 
consuming  force. 

Leaving  her  mother  to  exchange  confidences  with 
the  proprietress  over  peach  brandy  and  cigarettes, 
Miri  discarded  her  finery  for  the  more  serviceable 


MOTHER-OF-PEARL  165 

pareu,  and  sped  by  short  cuts  across  the  lagoon  shallows 
toward  the  Woy  Tow  store. 

It  is  a  strange  experience  to  approach  one's  home  as 
a  trespasser.  Indeed,  the  thing  is  impossible.  Miri 
assured  herself  of  this  as  the  canoe  glided  silently 
toward  the  seaward  end  of  the  fish  fence.  Who  has  better 
right  of  entry  than  the  housewife?  She  asked  herself 
the  question  while  making  fast  the  canoe,  and  answered 
it  by  peering  cautiously  through  the  bamboos. 

Dusk  had  fallen,  and  there  was  no  light  in  Ah  Fang's 
room.  The  place  was  deserted.  Yet  Miri  dived  and 
swam  under  water  to  the  beach,  and,  as  she  swam,  her 
hands,  out  of  habit,  passed  over  the  familiar  floor  of 
the  lagoon.  The  oysters  in  the  shallows,  over  a  hun- 
dred of  them,  had  gone — to  the  room!  The  door  was 
locked,  as  usual,  but  the  window  was  ill-fitting.  Miri 
lowered  herself  to  the  floor  and  glanced  about  her. 
There  was  nothing — nothing  but  a  litter  of  oyster 
shells,  reflecting  an  unctuous  sheen  in  the  half-light, 
and  the  sickening  stench  of  decayed  fish. 

It  was  then  that  a  thought  came  to  Miri — a  thought 
so  stupendous  as  to  leave  her  numb.  Presently  it  led 
her  as  hi  a  trance  through  the  window,  which  she  closed 
with  extreme  care,  and  down  to  the  lagoon,  where  she 
slid  beneath  the  surface  like  a  seal.  ' 

There  were  still  some  oysters  in  the  deeper  water. 
Miri  took  two  to  the  canoe  and  opened  them  with  a 
piece  of  hoop-iron.  Out  of  each  rolled  a  pearl  the  size 
of  a  healthy  pea.  She  handled  them  in  her  hands 
reverently,  as  a  mother  would  her  child.  She  placed 
them  at  the  lobes  of  her  ears,  and  set  her  head  at  an 


166  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

angle.  Out  there  in  the  darkness  she  trembled  at 
thought  of  what  she  knew.  Ah  Fang  could  make 
pearls!  As  others  grew  cocoanuts,  so  her  husband 
could  grow  pearls.  Where  was  the  end  of  it?  There 
was  none.  It  was  like  trying  to  think  of  space.  She 
sought  relief  in  action  on  the  floor  of  the  lagoon.  There 
were  several  oysters,  but  they  were  scattered.  It  was 
necessary  to  travel  far  and  remain  under  a  long  time — 
a  very  long  time.  But  there  was  a  pearl  in  every  one, 
and  were  they  not  her  children,  hers  and  Ah  Fang's? 
A  pearl  in  every  one!  The  refrain  sang  in  her  ears. 
Her  sleek  body  left  trails  of  phosphorescent  light  as  it 
darted  here  and  there  in  the  inky  water.  A  pearl  in 
every  one!  The  refrain  swelled  to  a  roar  as  something 
dragged  her  down,  down.  .  .  . 

Ah  Fang  ambled  dripping  up  the  beach,  lighted  the 
lamp  in  his  odoriferous  back  room,  and,  sweeping  a 
space  amongst  the  litter  of  oyster  shells,  indited  a  letter. 
Here  is  the  gist  of  it — 

HONOURABLE  SIRS: 

I  write  this  in  case  it  is  decreed  that  I  shall  not  return.  I  have  the 
honour  to  report  that  my  experiments  have  proved  successful. 
Given  the  ideal  conditions  which  exist  here  in  Tahiti,  it  is  possible 
to  do  all  that  we  had  hoped.  The  cestoid  is  a  common  disease  of  the 
shark,  and  transmission  by  injection  is  simple  and  certain  with 
ordinary  care.  I  need  say  no  more,  except  that  an  unforeseen  ob- 
stacle at  one  time  threatened  the  future  success  of  the  enterprise, 
and  it  is  the  removal  of  this  obstacle,  combined  with  the  strange 
customs  of  the  country,  which  necessitate  the  immediate  departure 
of  your  obedient  servant, 

AH  FANG. 


HIT  OR  Miss 

TO-MORROW  daylight,  then?" 
"That's  right." 
"Good-night." 

"Good-night,  Frank." 

When  he  had  gone,  Amery  settled  back  on  the  cabin 
locker  to  smoke  a  disreputable  pipe  in  slow,  methodical 
puffs,  and  stare  fixedly  at  the  swinging  lamp.  He  knew 
exactly  where  his  partner  was  going.  He  would  catch 
the  two-thirty  ferry  across  the  harbour  and  climb  the 
red  earth  path  to  the  bungalow  with  the  garden  over- 
looking the  sea.  There  he  would  be  as  charming  as 
Frank  Baird  knew  how  to  be.  He  would  balance  a 
tea  cup  on  his  knee  with  the  ease  of  an  expert,  and  talk 
trivialities  until  the  old  man  fell  asleep.  Then  he  and 
Dorothy  would  go  into  the  garden.  There  was  an  ar- 
bour at  the  bottom,  right  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  covered 
with  passion-fruit  vine.  .  . 

Here  Amery  checked  the  flow  of  his  thoughts  as 
though  turning  off  a  tap.  He  possessed  the  unusual 
strength  of  mind  to  do  this  and  always  did  it  at  the 
same  juncture.  He  considered  it  unwise  to  go  further, 
because  once,  when  he  had  allowed  himself  that  privi- 
lege, he  found  himself  entertaining  disturbing  and  alto- 
gether foreign  sentiments  toward  Frank.  And  that 
would  never  do.  Better  break  with  your  partner  than 

167 


168  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

hate  him.  Besides,  the  thing  was  childish.  .  .  . 
Amery  uncrossed  his  legs,  stood  up,  and  shook  himself 
like  a  mastiff,  then  reached  down  a  roll  of  charts  from 
the  rack  in  the  cabin  roof,  and  fell  to  studying  them 
with  knit  brows. 

So  correct  had  he  been  in  his  estimate  of  Baird's  move- 
ments, that  at  that  moment  his  partner  was  balancing 
a  blue-and-white  china  cup  on  his  knee,  the  while  he 
discussed  party  politics  with  the  old  man.  An  hour 
later  he  was  sitting  in  the  vine-clad  arbour  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  pretending  to  watch  the  ferry  boats  that 
scarred  the  fair  face  of  the  harbour,  but  in  reality  un- 
conscious of  anything  save  the  woman  at  his  side. 

"The  Islands  are  a  lottery,"  he  was  telling  her. 
"Draw  the  right  number,  and  you're 
made.  That's  why  we  stick  to  them." 
"You  and  Tom  have  had  a  good 
many  draws,  haven't  you?"  said  the 
girl,  smiling. 

"I  suppose  we  have,"  he  confessed, 
"but  you  never  know  your  luck,  and 
this  time.  .  .  ."  He  stopped 
abruptly,  plucked  a  passion-fruit 
leaf  with  a  quick,  nervous  movement,  and  commenced 
tearing  it  to  ribbons. 

"Yes,  this  time?"  prompted  the  girl. 
"It's  hit  or  miss.     "  He  looked  into  her  unwavering 
eyes.     "Hit  or  miss — this  time." 

"And  Tom  told  you  not  to  let  me  know  anything 
about  it,"  suggested  the  girl,  in  her  low,  even  voice. 
Baird  looked  down  at  the  shredded  leaf  in  his  hand, 


HIT  OR  MISS  169 

then  flicked  it  from  him  and  settled  back  on  the  cush- 
ions. 

"Tom  doesn't  'tell'  me  to  do  things — like  that,"  he 
said  deliberately.  "He's  nominal  skipper  aboard, 
because  someone's  got  to  be,  and  he's  the  elder  man, 
but  we're  partners.  It  was  an  understanding." 

"I  see,"  said  the  girl  softly.  "I  like  the  way  you 
and  Tom  understand  one  another." 

"We  ought  to,  after  being  shipmates  seven  years." 

"And  I  envy  you  Tom." 

Baird  looked  away  over  the  harbour,  the  tan  of  his 
face  slowly  deepening. 

"He's  a  good  fellow,"  he  said  shortly. 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  one  of  those  silences  that 
a  woman  knows  intuitively  how  long  to  sustain.  It 
was  inevitably  Baird  who  broke  it. 

"We've  bought  the  Spindrift"  he  announced. 

"The  Spindrift?" 

"Yes,  Tatham's  auxiliary  yacht,"  he  went  on 
hurriedly,  as  though  pent-up  thoughts  had  suddenly 
found  vent.  "She's  only  fifty  feet  over  all,  but 
a  picture.  The  auxiliary  motor  drives  her  at  six. 
I've  been  learning  'em  up.  I'm  engineer."  He 
laughed  boyishly.  "I  tell  you,  we're  all  in  with  the 
Spindrift." 

"But  isn't  she  very  small  for — for  the  Islands?" 

"In  tonnage,  perhaps,  but  you  should  see  her  con- 
struction. She's  a  cruiser,  fit  to  go  anywhere,  and  two 
men  can  handle  her;  that's  what  we  want." 

"You  two— alone?" 

"As  far  as  the  Islands,  yes.     We'll  pick  up  a  Kanaka 


170  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

crew  there — if  we  want  one."  Baird  grinned  mysteri- 
ously. "We're  on  to  something  this  time." 

Again  there  fell  a  silence,  and  again  it  was  Baird  who 
broke  it. 

"Copra  and  shell  are  dead,"  he  went  on.  "Compa- 
nies with  steamers  are  handling  that  sort  of  stuff  these 
days.  We're  after  something  better  than  copra  and 

shell,  and  if  we  get  it — if  we  get  it -"  His  long, 

nervous  fingers  were  interlocked  and  writhing  between 
his  knees.  "But  there's  always  an  'if,'  isn't  there?" 
he  ended  abruptly. 

"You  mustn't  look  at  it  like  that,"  said  the  girl. 
"Of  course  you'll  get  it,  though  I  don't  know  what  the 
'it'  is — no,"  she  added  quickly,  as  he  turned  to  her  with 
parted  lips,  "and  I  don't  want  to  know — if  Tom  would 
rather  not." 

"It  was  only  that  we  thought " 

"It  was  an  understanding,"  the  girl  reminded  him. 
"Good  luck  to  you  both." 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  staring  over  the  harbour.  "And 
whether  it's  hit  or  miss,  you'll  be  the  first  to  hear;  but 
you  know  that." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  she  answered. 

A  grim  smile  twisted  Baird 's  mouth,  but  his  eyes 
never  left  the  harbour. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  "I  wonder  just  what  will  hap- 
pen if  we  do  hit." 

Across  the  water  a  clock  boomed  the  hour  of  six. 
It  seemed  to  break  Baird's  train  of  thought.  He  stirred 
uneasily,  then  got  up. 

"I  must  be  going,"  he  said;  "we  sail  at  daylight." 


HIT  OR  MISS  171 

And  he  went,  leaving  the  girl,  a  dainty  white  figure 
against  the  all-pervading  green  of  the  garden,  looking 
after  him  with  thoughtful  eyes. 

Even  then  he  only  missed  his  partner  by  a  few  min- 
utes. Once  they  had  met  on  that  red  earth  path  lead- 
ing up  to  the  bungalow,  and  it  had  constituted  a  situ- 
ation not  to  be  repeated.  Thereafter,  through  all  the 
years  that  they  had  known  Dorothy  Fielding,  it  was 
tacitly  agreed  between  them  that  Baird  should  go  in  the 
afternoon  and  Amery  in  the  evening.  Their  under- 
standing of  one  another  was  extraordinarily  clear. 

"I  envy  you  Tom,"  the  girl  had  said,  and  she  spoke 
truth.  There  was  that  in  Amery  that  inspired  confi- 
dence, a  quiet  solidity  that  was  infinitely  restful, 
especially  to  a  woman.  She  went  on  with  her  needle- 
work when  he  came,  and  Amery  sat  smoking  placidly, 
saying  little,  but  absorbing  her  proximity  with  a  thor- 
oughness that  converted  her  every  word  and  movement 
into  a  memory. 

And  at  daylight  the  next  morning  she  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  in  a  fluttering  kimono,  her  hands  at  her 
breast,  while  a  trim  white  yacht  surged  down  the  har- 
bour fairway  under  power.  As  the  vessel  drew  level 
with  the  bungalow,  the  helmsman  raised  an  arm, 
and  presently,  above  the  sliding  hatch  aft,  a  head 
appeared  and  another  arm  was  raised  and  lowered  in 
farewell. 

So  the  partners  put  to  sea,  and  the  woman  they 
loved  watched  them  from  the  cliff  until  their  ship  dis- 
solved into  the  rose-tinted  haze  of  dawn. 

North-northeast    they   sailed,   the   southeast   trade 


172  SOUTH  OP  THE  LINE 

serving  them  well.  The  Spindrift  proved  a  witch. 
Sometimes,  with  tiller  lashed  for  hours  on  end,  she 
surged  through  indigo  waters,  while  the  partners  ate  or 
slept  or  discussed  their  undertaking  over  charts  out- 
spread on  the  cabin  table.  The  fittings  of  the  Spindrift 
had  been  reduced  to  bare  necessities.  Gone  were 
Tatham's  atrocious  water  colours  in  gilt  frames  that 
had  bespattered  the  white  walls  of  the  saloon,  flimsy 
door  hangings,  tapestry  cushion  covers,  and  all  the 
senseless  fripperies  of  an  overdressed  ship.  And  the 
partners  were  no  less  business-like.  They  spoke  only 
when  they  had  something  to  say.  Small  talk  had  long 
since  passed  out  of  their  curriculum.  They  knew  in- 
stinctively what  there  was  to  be  done,  and  did  it  with 
a  maximum  of  efficiency  and  a  minimum  of  fuss.  More- 
over, they  had  shed  their  shore-going  clothes  as  effec- 
tively as  their  party  manners.  Baird  wore  a  flimsy 
straw  hat,  an  undervest,  and  a  towel;  Amery  a  battered 
solar  topee,  a  sleeveless  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  well-beloved 
dungarees. 

One  thing  only  remained  unchanged  below  deck  on 
the  Spindrift,  and  that  was  the  gorgeous  mahogany 
chronometer  case  in  the  saloon.  It  contained,  un- 
touched and  rated  to  the  last  minute  of  departure,  three 
of  the  best  instruments  money  could  buy,  and  in  an- 
other compartment,  no  less  sacred,  Amery's  disrepu- 
table-looking pillar  sextant. 

After  something  like  two  weeks  of  almost  monoto- 
nously perfect  weather,  the  Spindrift  raised  an  atoll. 
It  was  the  first  of  the  Tau  group,  comprising  over  three 
hundred  of  these  fairy  rings  of  the  sea.  For  the  rest 


HIT  OR  MISS  173 

of  the  day  the  yacht  sailed  along  walls  of  surf-pounded 
coral  enclosing  lagoons  of  unbelievable  colour. 

At  night  she  anchored  to  the  reef,  for  no  one  ven- 
tures amongst  the  Taus  when  it  is  impossible  to  tell  blue 
water  from  green,  and  Baird  went  ashore,  returning 
in  a  few  hours  with  three  sturdy  "boys."  These  had 
no  idea  where  they  were  going,  nor  when,  if  ever,  they 
would  return;  neither  did  they  care,  provided  there  was 
a  ship  to  sail.  Coast  Kanakas  are  like  that,  and  they 
worked  the  Spindrift  to  such  purpose  that  in  two  days 
their  home  was  well  over  the  rim  of  the  horizon  and  the 
yacht  lay  hove-to  on  an  oily  swell. 

Amery  lowered  his  binoculars. 

"Piper's  a  bit  out,"  he  said,  "but  that's  to  be  ex- 
pected. 

Baird  nodded. 

"Better  charm  her  up  and  have  a  look  round." 

Exactly  what  the  Tau  "boys"  thought  of  the  Spin- 
drift's subsequent  antics  it  is  hard  to  say.  A  machine 
was  set  in  motion  that  had  the  amazing  effect  of  pro- 
pelling them  through  a  stark  calm  at  six  knots  for  three 
days  and  in  ever-widening  circles,  while  the  two  white 
men  ceaselessly  scoured  the  horizon.  What  they  ex- 
pected to  find,  the  great  spirits  alone  knew,  for  it  is  well 
known  that  beyond  Tau  there  is  nothing. 

It  was  equally  evident  that  these  two  were  capable  of 
miracles,  for  at  the  end  of  a  weary  week  two  bo'sun 
birds,  their  long,  thread-like  tails  streaming  in  their 
wake,  appeared  out  of  nowhere,  after  the  fashion  of 
sea  birds,  and  circled  above  the  ship's  truck,  swooping 
now  and  then  to  get  a  closer  view  of  the  intruders. 


174  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Others  joined  them,  and  presently,  amid  the  babel  of 
bird  voices  and  the  rush  of  wings,  one  of  the  white  men, 
who  had  stood  like  a  figurehead  in  the  bows  for  the 
past  hour,  flung  up  an  arm,  and  where  he  pointed  a  dull 
gray  mass  rose  out  of  the  sea.  That  is  what  the  Tau 
"boys"  claim  to  this  day.  It  was  interesting,  too,  to 
see  the  effect  of  this  miracle  upon  its  workers.  The 
hands  of  one  trembled  visibly  as  he  took  the  wheel  and 
spun  it  over.  The  other  showed  no  sign.  By  such 
trivialities  do  the  unsophisticated  tell  the  fibre  of  a  man. 

The  land  they  were  now  rapidly  nearing  was  shrouded 
in  mist — a  mist  of  birds  that  rose  and  hovered  and 
shrieked.  It  was  necessary  to  shout  above  the  .din. 
Wings  fanned  the  face.  The  whale  boat  was  lowered 
and  rowed  shoreward  under  a  drumming  roof  of  them. 

Amery  and  Baird  landed  without  difficulty,  and 
trudged  inland  through  an  ankle-deep,  grayish  dust 
that  rose  about  them  in  choking  clouds.  Neither  spoke. 
All  day,  without  food  or  drink,  they  scoured  the  island 
in  a  wilting  heat  that  seemed  to  affect  them  not  at  all. 
From  north  to  south,  east  to  west,  they  plodded  and 
paced,  always  through  the  same  gray  dust  littered  with 
the  skeletons  and  feathers  of  birds,  and  always  to  the 
drumming  accompaniment  of  wings. 

Toward  night  they  stumbled  down  to  the  beach  like 
a  pair  of  weary  dustmen,  rowed  out  to  the  ship,  and  sat 
staring  at  one  another  across  the  cabin  table. 

It  was  hard  to  realize  even  now.  The  island  they 
had  found,  the  same  that  old  Piper,  the  consumptive 
schooner  skipper  swore  he  had  seen,  but  was  too  sick 
at  the  time  to  alter  his  course  and  inspect,  was  a  strag- 


HIT  OR  MISS  175 

gler,  a  lost,  uncharted  child  of  the  Taus.  It  was  of 
upheaved  coral  formation,  which  means  that  it  had  been 
an  atoll  until  some  mighty  convulsion  of  the  earth's 
past  had  thrust  it  clear  of  the  sea.  What  had  once 
been  its  lagoon  was  now  a  bone-dry  basin  a  mile  by  a 
mile  and  a  half,  filled  to  the  brim  with  pure  guano. 
And  it  was  theirs. 

"Well,  that's  that,  and  here's  to  it!"  said  Baird,  with 
glass  upraised  and  an  excited  catch  in  his  voice. 

Amery  filled  his  pipe  with  customary  deliberation. 

"Piper  was  a  degree  out,"  he  complained,  "a 
degree.  .  .  ." 

Such  was  their  respective  fashion  of  hailing  good 
fortune. 

An  hour  later  the  auxiliary  was  propelling  the  Spin- 
drift through  an  oily  calm  when  a  shudder  ran  through 
the  ship,  followed  by  the  faint  clang  of  metal  and  the 
crazy  racing  of  the  engine. 

Amery  sprang  aft,  and  saw  under  a  bare  fathom  of 
crystal-clear  water  a  forest  of  coral  fronds,  and  above 
them,  protruding  from  the  ship's  quarter,  the  shattered 
remains  of  a  propeller.  They  had  barely  grazed  a 
submerged  reef,  another  atoll  in  the  making,  but  it  was 
enough;  the  Spindrift  lay  helpless  as  a  log.  Thus  the 
Islands  kiss  on  one  cheek  and  strike  the  other  within  an 
hour. 

The  days  that  followed  were  in  the  nature  of  an  ac- 
cumulative nightmare.  For  the  first  three  the  Tau 
"boys"  squatted  in  the  bows,  whistling  for  a  wind  that 
never  came,  and  the  partners  occupied  their  thoughts 
with  a  garden  overlooking  the  sea  and  other  things 


176  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

worth  having.  On  the  fourth,  gray  clouds  assembled, 
merged  into  a  nondescript  murk,  and  settled  down  on 
the  face  of  the  waters  like  a  giant  hand  intent  on  crush- 
ing the  breath  out  of  life. 

"Looks  like  a  stayer,"  commented  Baird. 

Amery  nodded.  He  knew  the  signs  of  this  pestifer- 
ous region  on  the  Line.  He  could  recall  the  name  of  a 
sailing  ship  that  had  had  her  insurance  paid  before  get- 
ting clear  of  the  Taus.  But  what  troubled  him  was  the 
knowledge  that  on  the  morrow  they  must  begin  to  ra- 
tion the  water. 

There  came  a  night,  as  dead  as  the  eternity  of  days 
and  nights  that  had  preceded  it,  when  Amery  woke  from 
a  fevered  sleep  and  lay  staring  at  the  beams  above  his 
bunk.  His  throat  ached  abominably,  his  tongue  felt 
like  dry  flannel  in  his  mouth,  but  there  was  nothing  new 
in  this.  The  ship's  company  was  long  since  down  to 
half  a  point  of  water  a  day,  and  all  that  remained  was  a 
bare  three  gallons  in  a  beaker  carefully  guarded  in  the 
saloon.  What  struck  Amery  as  unusual  was  a  sound, 
so  faint  as  to  be  hardly  discernible,  but  to  his  fever- 
sharpened  ears  maddeningly  unmistakable — the  gentle 
trickle  of  water.  For  an  instant  he  ascribed  it  to  his 
own  delirium,  the  next  he  had  moved  his  head  suffi- 
ciently to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  saloon.  It  was  dark, 
but  on  the  floor  it  seemed  there  was  something  in  faint 
relief,  something  altogether  too  close  to  the  water  beaker. 
It  moved. 

"Swab!"  croaked  Amery  and  fired. 

Yet,  by  the  time  he  had  sprung  from  his  bunk  and 


HIT  OR  MISS  177 

switched  on  the  light,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen 
but  the  three  startled  faces  of  the  Tail  "boys,"  each 
on  his  mat  in  the  fo'castle,  and  Baird  raised  on  an  el- 
bow, peevishly  demanding  to  know  the  cause  of  the 
racket. 

"Either  I'm  a  rotten  bad  shot,  or  I've  got  'em,"  said 
Amery,  flicking  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"Bit  of  both,  I  expect,"  grumbled  Baird.  "Finished 
the  quinine?" 

He  was  standing  it  better  than  his  partner,  but  then 
he  was  a  younger  man,  and  fever  had  never  taken  a 
proper  hold  on  him.  Amery  climbed  back  to  his  bunk 
alternately  shivering  under  a  pyramid  of  blankets  and 
anathematizing  himself  for  a  back  number. 

The  next  day  it  rained,  but  a  mile  away.  It  has  a 
knack  of  doing  that  on  the  Line.  You  may  stand  on 
a  ship's  deck  and  see  the  gray  pall  of  the  sky  burst  into 
a  deluge  on  either  hand,  hear  the  maddening  patter  and 
plash  of  fresh  water  meeting  salt,  and  never  a  drop 
come  your  way.  Again  the  Islands,  in  whimsical 
mood. 

And  then,  as  though  by  magic,  there  came  an  evening 
when  it  was  possible  to  breathe  without  effort,  when 
one  could  lean  over  the  rail,  at  first  imagining,  then 
convincing  oneself  of  the  blessed  motion  of  air  by  the 
faint  bellying  of  the  mainsail.  The  Spindrift  was  under 
way. 

Baird  took  over,  spuming  the  wheel  with  a  flourish. 

"West-sou'-west,"  Amery  directed  between  clenched 
teeth,  and  staggered  to  his  bunk. 

The  Kanakas  capered  in  the  bows  at  the  sight  of  the 


178  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Taus  a  few  days  later,  swam  ashore  before  the  anchor 
had  touched  bottom  and  returned  with  a  canoe  load  of 
green  cocoanuts. 

Baird  leant  over  his  partner's  bunk. 

"It's  all  over,  old  man,"  he  said,  shaking  him  gently. 
"Tom,  d'you  hear?" 

Amery  heard,  and  opened  his  eyes  on  a  brimming 
shell  of  cocoanut  milk,  that  he  drained  at  a  draught. 
But  he  was  weak,  pitiably  weak. 

"You'd  better  get  on  with  it,"  he  whispered.  "I'm 
no  good  for  a  bit." 

Baird  looked  down  on  him,  a  strange  expression  in 
his  eyes. 

"What  d'you  take  me  for?"  he  demanded. 

Amery  struggled  on  to  an  elbow. 

"You  know  what  I've  taken  you  for  these  seven 
years,"  he  growled,  "and  if  you're  anything  like  it, 
you'll  do  what  I  say.  Heave  right  ahead — register, 
and  lease,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Piper'll  give  you  a 
hand.  Amery,  Baird,  and  Piper  Incorporated,  eh?" 
He  chuckled  raucously.  "A  thing  like  this  doesn't 
want  to  be  left  a  day  longer  than  need  be.  I'll  follow 
on  the  first  chance. 

Baird  turned  away  and  stared  through  a  porthole. 
He  could  do  that — the  best  possible  for  his  partner. 
All  his  wit  and  energy  must  be  centred  on  just  that 
from  now  on — the  best  possible  for  Amery,  and  per- 
haps, in  time.  .  .  . 

"What  the  devil's  got  you?"  boomed  Amery. 

Baird  started  and  turned. 

"Nothing,"  he  said.     "I'll  go." 


HIT  OR  MISS  179 

He  had  not  meant  to  go  to  the  garden  overlooking  the 
sea,  not  until  Amery  was  back.  But  the  first  evening, 
alone  with  his  thoughts  after  a  day  of  interviewing 
sleek  gentlemen  at  roll-top  desks  with  entirely  satisfac- 
tory results,  broke  down  his  resolve.  There  could  be  no 
harm,  and  he  must  talk  to  someone  or  go  mad,  and 
wouldn't  she  think  it  strange.  .  .  .?  Of  course  she 
would,  and  she  did,  and  said  so  in  the  arbour  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden.  If  she  had  not  been  the  first  to 
hear,  as  he  had  promised,  she  would  never  have  for- 
given him. 

Baird  told  her  all — or  nearly  all,  and  at  the  end  sat 
staring  before  him  with  troubled  eyes  until  the  girl's 
hand  touched  his  arm. 

"What's  the  matter,  Frank?"  she  questioned  gently. 

He  started  and  stared  at  her. 

" Nothing,"  he  said.     " Why?  " 

"You  can't  tell  me  that,"  she  insisted,  still  very 
gently. 

Baird  moved  uneasily. 

"I  was  thinking  of  Tom,"  he  confessed. 

The  girl  leant  back  on  the  cushions. 

"Oh,  you  two!"  she  laughed,  and  was  startled  at  the 
look  in  his  eyes  as  he  turned  on  her. 

"I  tell  you  this,"  he  jerked  out;  "nothing  that  I  can 
do,  nothing,  you  understand,  will  ever  repay  Tom  for 
what  I've — for  what  he's  done  for  me.  I  ..." 

And  that  was  probably  why  half  an  hour  later  Doro- 
thy Fielding  was  in  his  arms. 

"It  was  never  any  one  else?"  he  demanded  roughly. 

"Never,"  she  told  him. 


180  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"And  nothing  can  make  any  difference — nothing?" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  he  had  his  answer. 

Two  months  after  they  were  married  Amery  came 
back,  a  trifle  thinner,  but  otherwise  his  old  self. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  an  old  crock  who  can't  hold 
his  end  up?"  he  asked  Dorothy,  on  the  afternoon  of  his 
first  call. 

"Now  you're  fishing,"  she  bantered.  "Frank 
says " 

"But  you  surely  don't  take  any  notice  of  what  Frank 
says — now?"  laughed  Amery. 

They  managed  it  very  well,  that  first  meeting,  until 
Baird  left  them  to  afternoon  tea,  while  he  interviewed 
further  gentlemen  at  roll-top  desks.  Then  things 
seemed  to  drag.  They  had  never  dragged  before,  and 
Amery  was  at  a  loss  until  the  girl  took  up  her  needle- 
work as  of  old. 

"Tom,"  she  said  presently,  without  looking  up,  "will 
you  help  us?  But  I  needn't  have  asked  that,"  she 
added,  the  colour  suffusing  her  averted  face.  "Just  lis- 
ten, and  don't  say  anything  till  the  end,  like  you  always 
do.  Frank  has  something  to  tell  you — something  that 
he  has  told  me.  If  he  didn't  tell  you,  I  believe  it  would 
kill  him;  he  is  like  that."  Her  head  bent  lower  over  her 
work,  her  voice  was  a  low  monotone.  "It  is  a  thing 
that  he — that  we  both  think  shameful.  Nothing  will 
make  it  right,  but  something — surely  something  that  a 
man  can  say  to  a  man  will  make  it  easier  for  him."  She 
lifted  her  head  for  the  first  time.  "Promise  me  you'll 
say  it." 

"I  promise,"  said  Amery.     "Go  on." 


HIT  OR  MISS  181 

She  put  down  her  work  and  went  over  to  the  window, 
standing  with  her  back  to  the  room,  her  eyes  fastened 
on  the  little  square  of  suburban  garden  outside. 

"You  shot  Frank,"  she  said  quietly. 

For  hours  after  that  ghastly  interview  Amery  paced 
his  hotel  bedroom.  Curiously  enough,  he  felt  no 
resentment,  only  an  overwhelming  pity  for  his  partner. 
Heavens,  what  a  confession  for  a  man  to  have  to  make! 
And  he,  Amery,  must  listen  to  it  and  say  something  at 
the  end — "to  make  it  easier  for  him."  He  laughed  in 
sheer  hopelessness  at  the  task  none  but  a  woman  would 
set.  Nothing  would  make  it  right,  she  had  admitted 
that.  .  .  .  Amery  paused  in  his  stride.  Two 
wrongs  did  not  make  a  right,  he  told  himself,  yet 
they  have  been  mighty  comforting  on  occasion.  The 
thought  seized  on  him,  held  him.  He  was  actually 
chuckling  at  his  own  cunning  when  the  bell-boy  an- 
nounced Baird. 

It  was  plain  that  he  laboured  under  intense  excite- 
ment. 

"I  shan't  keep  you  long,"  he  said,  declining  the  chair 
Amery  indicated.  "I've  only  come  to  let  you  know 
that  I'm  the  swab  you  once  called  me.  Look  at  this." 
He  rolled  up  a  trouser  leg,  exposing  a  clean  flesh 
wound  in  the  calf.  "You  did  that,  and  you  know 
when.  I  took  water.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to 
that?" 

Amery  slowly  levered  himself  out  of  his  chair. 

"Nothing  much,"  he  said,  "except  that  I  can't  see 
the  necessity  of  all  this  song  and  dance  about  it." 


182  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Why  don't  you  say  what  you  think?"  Baird  ex- 
ploded. "I'll  take  anything — glad  to." 

Amery  looked  at  him,  a  whimsical  smile  playing  under 
his  moustache. 

"You  fellows  with  superfine  consciences  make  me 
sick,"  he  said.  "You're  a  pest.  You  took  water. 
"Well,  for  that  matter,  so  did  I." 


Roo  OF  THE  ATOLLS 

A~  IINUTE  passed — two  minutes. 
Down  there  Roo's  sleek  bronze  body  was  no 
more  than  a  flickering  shadow  on  the  pale  green 
floor  of  the  lagoon.     He  had  gone  deep,  for  it  is  in  the 
depths  and  the  less  accessible  crevices  of  the  coral  that 
the  old  shell  is  to  be  found,  bigger  than  soup  plates, 
gnarled   and    barnacle-encrusted    without,    but    con- 
taining a  lustre  incomparable,  and  perhaps But  one 

must  not  speculate.  It  is  not  done  in  the  Paumotus, 
nor  any  other  pearling  grounds  in  the  Pacific.  Things 
happen  or  do  not  happen,  according  to  one's  own  partic- 
ular beliefs,  and  to  think  too  much  about  them  brings 
ill-fortune  in  its  wake  as  surely  as  preparing  the  basket 
before  the  fish  is  caught. 

Three  minutes  came  and  went.  The  canoe  rode 
empty  and  inert  on  the  silken  surface  of  the  lagoon.  A 
bo'sun  bird  swooped  out  of  the  brazen  sky  and,  alighting 
on  an  outrigger  pole,  preened  himself  undisturbed.  The 
shadow  on  the  sloping  floor  of  the  lagoon  was  no  longer 
visible.  Roo  had  gone  still  deeper,  to  fifteen  fathoms, 
perhaps,  and  into  a  world  of  his  own,  where  none  but  his 
kind  could  follow.  Bubbles  rose,  tiny  globules  of  light 
that  flicked  upward  and  were  gone,  followed  at  last  by 
a  dark  form  that  shot  from  the  depths  like  a  meteor. 

Roo  shook  the  water  from  his  hair,  pushed  the  goggles 

183 


184  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

from  his  eyes  on  to  his  forehead,  and  wallowed  to  the 
canoe.  About  his  neck  hung  a  string  bag  filled  with 
shell.  This  he  flung  aboard,  and  clambering  after  it, 
commenced  opening  operations  with  the  same  leisurely 
deliberation  that  marked  all  his  movements. 

His  was  killing  work,  and  there  is  no  object  in  hurry- 
ing over  suicide.  Already  his  eyes  protruded  omi- 
nously, a  perpetual  dirge  resounded  in  one  ear,  and  on 
occasion  he  had  caught  himself  stumbling  over 
an  obstacle  that  did  not  exist.  Inevitably 
he  would  go  the  way  of  all  pearl-divers  in  the 
end  unless Something  fell  from  the  half- 
opened  shell  in  his  hand,  tinkled  against  the 
knife-blade  and  dropped  between  his  feet. 

In  the  breathless  moments  that  followed 
he  knew  that  the  unmentioned  dream  haunting  the 
thoughts  of  every  diver  had  in  his  own  case  come  true. 

Unlike  most  people  of  the  atolls,  Roo  was  a  man  of 
set  purpose — the  gaining  of  the  world  for  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman  in  it,  nothing  less.  It  was  for  this  that  his 
eyes  bulged,  his  ear  sang,  and  he  stumbled  as  he  walked. 
He  placed  the  pearl  reverently  in  his  mouth,  caressing  it 
with  his  tongue,  and  paddled  unhurriedly  for  the  beach. 
The  omnivorous  buyer,  seated  on  his  spine  in  a  wicker 
chair,  glowered  contemptuously  at  Roo's  meagre  of- 
fering of  shell. 

"And  they  are  piquS  at  that,"  he  complained  lan- 
guidly in  native  parlance.  "You  must  do  better  than 
this,  or  there  will  be  trouble." 

Roo  appeared  unimpressed,  and  shifted  his  weight 
from  one  enormous  foot  to  the  other,  whereat  the  buyer 


ROO  OF  THE  ATOLLS  185 

sighed,  levered  himself  out  of  the  chair,  and  went  into 
the  store,  returning  presently  with  a  formidable-looking 
ledger. 

"You  now  owe  the  Compagnie  Maritime  two  thou- 
sand francs,"  he  droned,  "and  we  can  allow  you  nothing 
more  until  at  least  half  this  amount  is  paid  in  shell.  If 
you  dispose  of  it  elsewhere,  the  Compagnie  will  take  ac- 
tion." 

The  tone  was  that  of  one  who  repeats  a  set  piece.  It 
was  a  set  piece,  composed  by  one  of  the  bewhiskered 
directors  of  the  Compagnie  in  Paris.  The  buyer  re- 
cited it,  according  to  instructions,  not  less  than  five 
times  daily,  and  had  long  since  ceased  to  derive  amuse- 
ment from  the  nai've  idea  of  "taking  action"  against  a 
grinning,  mother-naked  savage  of  the  Paumotus. 

"It  shall  be  paid,"  said  Roo,  still  unmoved.  "In  the 
meantime,  I  desire  a  pareu  and  a  silk  shirt." 

"Take  them,  then,"  snapped  the  buyer,  subsiding 
hopelessly  on  to  his  spine,  "but  bring  us  shell." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  Roo's  tongue  to  say  that  he  had 
done  with  shell,  and  done  with  the  Compagnie  Mari- 
time— a  man  is  prone  to  such  foolishness  in  the  hour  of 
triumph — but  there  was  something  of  vastly  more  im- 
portance on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  at  the  moment,  and  he 
refrained. 

Resplendent  in  his  new  pareu  and  silk  shirt,  he  sought 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  found  her 
ensconced  in  her  superlative  parlour,  powdering  her 
nose.  Mata  was  beautiful — there  was  no  denying 
that — and,  what  was  perhaps  equally  desirable,  she  was 
the  last  word  in  Tahitian  culture  to  reach  the  Paumotus. 


186  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Though  merely  the  daughter  of  a  local  shell  sorter  af- 
flicted with  elephantiasis,  she  had  stayed  for  more  than 
a  month  with  distant  half-caste  relatives  in  Papeete. 
Consequently,  she  knew  precisely  what  to  do  and  how 
to  do  it.  Her  surroundings  reflected  this  knowledge. 
Externally  her  father's  house  might  be  no  more  than  a 
battered  and  rusty  corrugated  iron  shed  set  on  a  blazing 
strip  of  coral  sand,  but  somewhere  enshrined  within 
that  unworthy  structure  was  Mata's  parlour. 

Here  one  sat  on  chairs  instead  of  mats.  The  lamp 
was  an  intricate  affair  of  dangling  prisms  and  painted 
flowers.  There  were  spindle-legged  "occasional"  ta- 
bles supporting  nothing  of  any  practical  use,  a  heavy 
pile  carpet,  a  gramophone,  framed  photographs  of 
wedding  groups,  and  an  overpowering  stench  of  scent. 

Then  there  was  Mata  herself,  usually  in  pink  silk,  a 
gold  bangle  above  the  elbow  of  one  shapely  arm,  a  pear- 
shaped  pipi  dangling  from  either  of  her  incomparable 
ears,  and  a  pair  of  languorous  but  all-seeing  brown  eyes 
rolling  assiduously  in  her  well-poised  little  head. 

Usually  Roo  entered  the  precincts  with  a  considerable 
amount  of  trepidation,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
supplied  the  gramophone  and  the  bangle,  which,  by  the 
way,  where  the  sole  reasons  that  Mata  suffered  him. 
But  to-day  he  was  filled  with  the  courage  of  achieve- 
ment. He  found  it  possible  to  look  his  awe-inspiring 
surroundings  in  the  eye,  to  sit  squarely  on  unaccus- 
tomed furniture,  and  even  dispose  of  the  eternal  en- 
cumbrance of  his  feet. 

Mata  noticed  the  change  in  his  demeanour  and  won- 
dered vaguely,  but  held  her  peace.  She  knew  that 


ROO  OF  THE  ATOLLS  187 

whatever  caused  it  was  bound  to  come  to  the  surface  in 
a  child-like  nature  such  as  Roo's.  And  she  was  not 
mistaken. 

"Mata,"  he  boomed  hi  his  deep  chest  voice,  "the 
time  has  come  for  us  to  marry." 

"So?"  she  questioned  with  charming  insouciance. 

"It  is  so,"  chanted  Roo.  "You  wish  for  Papeete, 
for  a  house,  for  many  stockings  of  silk,  for  a  piano — 
for  the  world.  It  is  yours.  I  can  give  it  you,  I!" 
He  thumped  his  massive  chest  dramatically.  "For  two 
years  I  have  worked  alone  in  the  deep  waters — for  you. 
For  two  years  I  have  faced  the  perils  of  shark  and 
devil-fish.  .  .  ." 

He  said  a  great  deal  more — the  people  of  the  atolls 
are  not  addicted  to  mock  modesty — and  long  before  he 
had  done  Mata  was  leaning  forward  with  parted  lips 
and  shining  eyes. 

"Show  it  me,"  she  whispered.  "Roo,  you  must 
show  it  me ! " 

Roo  did  as  he  was  bid.  He  was  incapable  of  doing 
anything  else  where  Mata  was  concerned.  She  took 
the  pearl  from  between  his  clumsy  fingers  and  devoured 
it  with  her  eyes.  There  was  not  a  doubt  that  all  Roo 
had  said  was  true.  Mata  was  a  judge.  Her  only  re- 
gret was  that  out  of  her  many  and  varied  suitors  suc- 
cess had  fallen  to  this  man  of  bulging  eyes  and  incipient 
paralysis.  She  studied  him  furtively  and  for  the  first 
time  thoroughly.  Could  anything  be  done  with  him? 
Was  there  the  slightest  hope  of  rendering  him  passable 
before  the  critical  tribunal  of  her  distant  half-caste 
relatives  hi  Papeete?  She  was  afraid  not.  And  yet 


188  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Her  glance  fell  again  to  the  pearl,  appraising  its  value 
to  the  last  franc.  The  computation  made  almost  any- 
thing possible. 

"You  will  sell  to  Andre?"  she  suggested. 

Roo  shook  his  head. 

"We  will  go  to  Papeete,"  he  said  with  unusual  firm- 
ness, "and  I  will  sell  to  the  Chinaman.  He  is  honest." 

Mata  allowed  a  low,  rippling  laugh  to  escape  her. 
She  knew  well  Roo's  opinion  of  his  rival  Andre. 

"I  was  but  teasing,  my  Roo,"  she  said. 

"Then  we  sail  on  the  Miri  in  three  days'  time," 
boomed  Roo. 

"Three  days!"  wailed  Mata  in  simulated  alarm. 
"Only  three  days?" 

"That  is  all,  my  Mata,  and  in  the  meantime  no  one 
shall  know?" 

"Need  you  ask?    And  you  will  take  care " 

Roo  tapped  his  belt  significantly.  A  man  is  prone 
to  such  foolishness  in  the  hour  of  triumph.  On  one 
side  was  a  small  pouch,  on  the  other  a  sheathed  knife. 
Then  he  passed  out  into  the  sunshine,  stumbling  over 
nothing  whatever  in  the  doorway. 

There  was  little  time  and  much  to  be  done.  Two 
days  Roo  spent  shelling  with  the  others,  thereby  con- 
vincing the  weary  buyer  for  the  Compagnie  Maritime 
that  his  advice  had  been  taken.  So  much  so  that  Roo 
succeeded  in  extracting  from  him  a  Prince  Albert  suit 
and  its  appurtenances.  This  he  donned  at  noon  of  the 
third  day,  and,  in  a  bath  of  perspiration  such  as  only 
these  atrocities  in  raiment  can  produce,  was  striding 
into  the  settlement  when  he  met  Andre. 


ROO  OF  THE  ATOLLS  189 

"Where  now?"  queried  this  half-caste  pearl  expert, 
with  his  ingratiating  smile. 

"To  my  business,"  boomed  Roo. 

"And  that?" 

"Is  my  business,"  returned  Roo,  and  instantly 
wished  that  he  had  not  said  it.  It  was  his  to  allay 
suspicion,  not  arouse  it,  especially  at  this,  the  eleventh 
hour. 

Andre's  ferret  eyes  rested  on  Roo  with  a  drunkard's 
fatuous  solemnity. 

"And  you  have  no  time,  not  even  for  one  small  drink 
with  a  friend?" 

"There  is  always  time  for  that,"  said  Roo,  with  what 
for  him  was  supreme  cunning. 

Andre  drew  a  glass  flask  from  his  hip  pocket. 

"The  best  out  of  Papeete!"  he  chanted,  holding  it 
up  to  the  light  and  swaying  gently.  "To  good-will  be- 
tween rivals,  eh?" 

And  at  that  hour  Roo  found  it  in  his  heart  to  pity 
Andre.  There  is  no  solicitude  so  genuine  as  that  of  the 
successful  suitor  for  his  less  fortunate  rival.  Roo 
drank,  and  in  less  than  two  minutes  was  lying  prone 
on  the  beach,  with  the  attenuated  fingers  of  Andre 
the  expert  at  his  belt. 

He  opened  his  eyes  on  a  canopy  of  stars.  It  was 
night,  and  the  dirge  in  his  ear  had  swelled  to  a  roar, 
and  there  was  a  band  of  fire  about  his  head.  Also  the 
pearl  was  gone. 

A  giant  figure  in  a  dishevelled  Prince  Albert  suit 
staggered  to  its  feet  and  stumbled  through  the  sand  in 
the  starlight.  It  came  to  a  halt  before  the  home  of  the 


190  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world.  The  superlative 
parlour  was  deserted.  Only  the  outhouse  showed  any 
signs  of  life  in  the  form  of  a  flickering  yellow  light  and 
on  the  mats  beside  it  Mata's  father  nursing  his  mam- 
moth leg,  and  swaying  and  moaning  in  anguish  as  be- 
fits the  bereaved. 

Roo  took  a  stride  toward  the  squatting  figure,  his 
hand  outstretched,  the  fingers  awork,  then  turned 
aside  and  passed  down  the  beach.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  staring  over  the  starlit  sea,  then  with  quick,  fe- 
rocious movements  he  tore  the  Prince  Albert  suit  from 
his  body  and  flung  it  on  the  sand. 

When  the  moon  rose,  it  found  him  squatting  at  the 
water's  edge,  still  staring  seaward.  Roo  was  thinking. 

And  the  schooner  Miri  was  plowing  a  phospho- 
rescent furrow  through  the  night. 

"But  it  was  so  simple,  my  pearl,  that  I  hardly  like  to 
speak  of  it.  They  are  big,  but  they  are  soft,  these 
Paumotan  savages.  One  tap,  in  fair  fight,  too,  and 
the  thing  was  done.'* 

Thus  Andre  at  the  ship's  rail,  with  Mata  at  his  side 
asking  a  woman's  unnecessary  questions. 

"I  do  not  like  it,  Andre,"  she  said.  "That  man  is 
different  to  the  others.  He  will  not  forget." 

Andre  turned  and  studied  the  alluring  profile  at  his 
elbow. 

"Then  you  would  have  had  me  make  it  impossible 
for  him  to  remember?"  he  suggested. 

Mata  did  not  answer,  but  her  meaning  was  none  the 
less  clear. 


ROO  OF  THE  ATOLLS  191 

"Little  savage!"  laughed  Andre,  and  stroked  her 
hand  as  it  lay  on  the  rail.  "Have  no  fear.  Papeete 
is  not  the  Paumotus.  There  are  gendarmes  to  pro- 
tect life  and  property.  Besides,  how  is  he  to  prove  he 
ever  had  a  pearl?" 

"That  is  so,"  mused  Mata.  But  she  shivered,  and 
Andre  fetched  her  bedizened  wrap  from  the  cabin. 

On  arrival  in  Papeete,  where  Andre  sold  the  pearl  for 
thirty  thousand  francs,  the  sequence  of  events  was  as 
inevitable  as  may  be  supposed.  From  mere  neglect, 
Andre's  treatment  of  Mata  descended  by  rapid  stages 
to  vicious  brutality,  and  within  the  month  she  was  a 
broken  woman. 

Of  an  evening  she  would  escape  from  the  house  that 
was  her  torture  chamber,  and  walk  aimlessly  in  a  dowdy 
wrapper  along  the  coral  wall  that  formed  the  beach. 
Here  the  water  was  deep,  and  clear  and  clean.  Mata 
loved  to  look  down — down.  It  reminded  her  of  a 
Paumotan  lagoon. 

And  here  it  was  that  on  a  night  of  dazzling  moon- 
light a  head  clove  the  water  at  her  feet.  With  a  curious 
lack  of  surprise  or  alarm  she  saw  that  it  was  Roo's. 
He  had  died,  then. 

Presently  it  spoke,  with  the  booming  intonation  of 
old. 

"You  are  not  happy,  then,  my  Mata?" 

She  did  not  answer.  She  could  not.  But  her  head 
was  bowed  until  it  rested  on  her  knees.  Her  body  com- 
menced to  sway,  and  the  moan  of  the  bereaved  floated 
out  on  the  water. 

When  she  looked  up,  the  head  was  gone. 


192  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Andre  had  bought  his  election  to  the  club  that  over- 
looks the  harbour.  Here  on  the  wide  balcony,  and 
over  countless  absinthes  at  the  little  round  tables,  he 
could  mix  on  equal  terms  with  the  elect  of  Papeete, 
win  or  lose  prodigious  sums  at  cards,  roulette,  or  bil- 
liards, and  dabble  in  pearls  on  quite  an  imposing  scale. 

The  life  suited  him.  It  presented  possibilities  of  a 
chicanery  that  was  second  nature  to  Andre.  He  be- 
came famous  in  the  Island  underworld  as  a  "fence." 
No  matter  how  a  stone  had  been  acquired,  Andre 
would  buy  it  without  question — for  less  than  half  its 
value.  Often  he  would  be  sitting  at  cards  when  one 
of  his  runners  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  he  would  ex- 
cuse himself  to  interview  some  quaking  thief  or  mur- 
derer, or  both,  in  the  deeper  shadows  of  the  beach.  It 
paid.  Such  people  are  more  tractable  than  most. 

That  was  why  on  a  certain  night  he  deserted  an  un- 
precedented run  of  luck  to  plunge  into  the  velvet  dark- 
ness of  the  beach  road. 

He  found  his  man,  as  the  runner  had  said,  under  the 
flamboyants  at  the  end  of  the  coral  wall.  Andre  did 
not  speak.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  letting  others  do 
that.  But  this  fellow,  a  hulking  savage,  by  the  loom 
of  his  half-naked  body  in  the  shadows,  was  strangely 
silent. 

"Well?"  snapped  Andre  impatiently. 

A  hand  was  outstretched,  an  immense  hand,  and 
Andre's  went  to  meet  it.  But  the  other  proved  to  be 
empty,  and  its  fingers  closed  on  his  like  a  steel  trap. 
Another  shot  from  the  darkness,  enveloping  his  face  as 
in  a  mask. 


ROO  OF  THE  ATOLLS  193 

"Greetings,  my  friend ! "  boomed  the  voice  of  Roo. 
"We  will  make  it  a  long  one,  of  Papeete's  best,  eh?" 

The  entwined  and  writhing  bodies  struck  the  water 
as  one.  The  inky  waters  parted  and  closed.  A  minute 
passed — two  minutes.  Roo  had  gone  deep,  to  fifteen 
fathoms,  perhaps,  and  into  a  world  of  his  own,  where 
none  but  his  kind  could  follow.  The  ripples  expanded 
in  ever-widening  circles,  and  were  still.  Three — four 
minutes  came  and  went.  Roo  was  surpassing  his  own 
record,  and  it  was  not  before  the  end  of  the  fifth  that 
his  head  broke  water  and  he  clambered  gasping  up  the 
coral  wall. 

Mata  was  tossing  sleeplessly  on  her  mats,  waiting 
for  she  knew  not  what.  She  was  always  waiting  now, 
and  never  did  she  know  what  for  until  Andre  made  it 
clear. 

At  the  sound  of  a  naked  footfall  on  the  veranda 
steps  she  started  as  though  stung. 

"Where  is  Andre?"  she  demanded  of  the  giant  figure 
that  loomed  in  the  doorway. 

"He  sleeps,"  boomed  Roo.  "We  have  been  drink- 
ing, Andre  and  I.  Come,  my  Mata!" 


WE  OF  MAOTA 

HURRICANES  and  bananas  are  incompatible. 
In  other  words,  we  of  Malita  were  ruined.  En- 
raged nature  had  seen  fit  to  stretch  out  her  in- 
exorable hand  and  wipe  the  fruits  of  our  labour  from  the 
face  of  the  island  as  cleanly  as  a  drawing  from  a  slate. 
We  were  talking  about  it  on  my  veranda. 

"The  question  is,"  began  the  .inevitable  Tomlin, 
tilting  back  his  packing  case,  the  cane  chairs  having 
gone  to  his  betters,  "  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it? 
Personally,  I'm  down  and  out." 

"I  suppose  it  hit  us  all  equally,"  I  suggested. 

There  followed  a  series  of  doleful  nods. 

"Pulp,"  grunted  Webb. 

"Except  the  weeds,"  chirped  Tomlin,  "I've  got  the 
finest  unscathed  crop  of  creeping  vine  south  of  the 
line,  and " 

"As  a  banana  country,"  said  Rands,  ignoring  the 

nuisance,  "  and  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,  gentlemen " 

He  raised  his  right  hand  with  grave  deliberation. 

"Which  being  interpreted?"  I  suggested. 

"Never  again,"  explained  the  American. 

"As  bad  as  that,  eh?" 

"Sure.  My  motto  is:  'Once  bitten,  twice  shy;  twice 
bitten  cut  it  out,  whatever  it  is,  before  it  eats  you." 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you  this,"  he  added,  pausing  for 

194 


WE  OF  MALITA  195 

effect;  "Pineapples  take  no  account  of  blows.  I  came 
through  Hawaii  on  my  way  here,  and  they're  growing 
pineapples  there  on  land  that  costs  them  a  thousand  dol- 
lars an  acre;  pineapples  no  better  than  ours  in  the  bush 
of  Malita.  It  costs  them  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day  for 
labour,  and  they're  making  money.  Here  we  should 
pay  nothing  for  the  land,  a  shilling  a  day  for  labour — 
and  a  thousand  for  the  canning  plant,"  he  ended  a  trifle 
hurriedly.  His  flashing  eye  challenged  the  company. 
"As  an  idea?"  he  demanded. 

"Excellent,"  admitted  someone.     "But— 

"Thank  you,  gentlemen,"  said  Rands,  and  subsided. 

"But  the  thousand?"  came  the  still  small  voice. 

The  American's  face  was  buried  in  a  tumbler  of  what 
he  persisted  in  calling  a  highball.  "I've  given  you  the 
idea,"  he  said  on  its  withdrawal;  "the  rest  is  up  to  you." 

Malita  practically  lived  on  my  veranda  during  these 
drear  days  of  despondency,  and  one  afternoon — the 
same  as  a  hundred  others,  brazen  and  breathless — Tom- 
lin  was  reading  the  Levuka  Herald  when  he  made  a 
noise  in  his  throat  and  said:  "Well,  I'm 

As  usual,  no  one  took  the  faintest  notice.  Tomlin 
continued  to  read  with  extraordinary  concentration  for 
upward  of  five  minutes,  then  wandered  across  to  the 
veranda  railing  and  stood  there,  alternately  whistling 
and  staring  out  at  the  glare. 

Suddenly  he  turned.  "I  have  an  idea,"  he  an- 
nounced, "  and  it's  a  good  one,  although  it's  mine." 

"Common  theft?"  suggested  Rands. 

Tomlin  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said,  "you  can't 
call  it  that." 


196  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Appropriation?"  murmured  Nares. 

"Out  with  it,"  rasped  Webb. 

"Then  I  gather  you  want  my  little  idea,"  said  the 
imperturbable  Tomlin.  "Have  any  of  you  ever  heard 
of  Colin  Sterling?" 

"Sounds  Scotch,"  suggested  an  intelligent  someone. 

"It  is,"  admitted  Tomlin.  "It  is  also  the  name  of 
the  wealthiest  shipping  man  in  Liverpool.  He  wallows, 
literally  wallows,  in  slathers  and  slathers  of  money.  A 
thousand  to  him  is  as  an  unripe  banana  to  you  and 
me." 

"And  you  know  him? "  I  suggested.  I  thought  I  was 
beginning  to  see  daylight. 

"I  know  of  him,"  corrected  Tomlin,  "which  is  quite 
enough  for  our  purposes.  He  doesn't  know  how  to 
spend  his  money,  so  he  lets  his  youngest  son  do  it  for 
him.  He's  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  has  the 
knack.  The  others  are  like  the  father  and  the  extraor- 
dinary thing  is  that  the  old  man's  prouder  of  the 
spendthrift  than  of  all  the  others  put  together.  A  son 
of  Colin  Sterling  who  doesn't  think  twice  about  keeping 
a  taxi  waiting!  He's  looked  on  as  unique  in  the  annals 
of  the  family." 

"This  is  all  very  instructive,"  Nares  interpolated. 
"But  is  one  permitted  to  ask  how  the  eccentric  son  of  a 
wealthy  Scotsman  in  Liverpool  affects  us  of  Malita?" 

Tomlin  waited  for  his  glass  to  be  filled  before  answer- 
ing. "Certainly,"  he  said;  "the  answer  is  in  the  news- 
paper yonder.  This  same  eccentric  son  is  on  an  educa- 
tional world  tour — thinks  he  paints — and  he  lands  in 
Levuka  the  day  after  to-morrow." 


WE  OF  MALITA  197 

We  leaned  back  in  our  chairs.  The  tension  was  re- 
laxed. This  seemed  to  trouble  Tomlin.  "Mind  you,"  he 
warned,  "  I  don't  mean  what  you  mean.  Nothing  would 
induce  me  to  cadge.  Besides,  I  don't  know  the  man." 

"Sure,"  murmured  Nares,  his  cigar  pointing  at  a 
reflective  angle.  "Haven't  been  introduced.  I  know 
the  dope." 

"No;  and  don't  intend  to  be,"  supplemented  Tomlin, 
with  unusual  warmth.  "Look  here,  Rands;  I  know  all 
sorts  of  schemes  are  flitting  through  your  nimble  brain, 
but  there's  only  one  way  this  thing's  going  to  be  done, 
and  that's  my  way.  It's  going  to  be  a  straightforward 
affair  without  any  subtleties  or  complications  of  any 
kind.  It's  based  on  simple  logic." 

"I  like  to  hear  a  man  talk  like  that,"  said  Rands. 
"Fire  ahead." 

Tomlin's  simple  logic  took  three  minutes  to  pro- 
pound and  as  many  hours  to  discuss.  Certainly  it 
was  simple,  but  opinions  differed  as  to  its  being  logic. 
It  was  christened  variously  and  according  to  taste,  but 
Tomlin  held  his  ground  with  unlooked-for  determina- 
tion. Night  descended  on  Malita  like  a  hot,  moist 
blanket,  and  our  voices,  raised  in  altercation,  mingled 
under  the  tropic  stars  and  drowned  the  boom  of  the 
surf  on  the  barrier  reef. 

One  by  one  we  fell  into  line,  driven  by  the  over- 
powering weight  of  necessity.  Webb  was  the  last  to 
succumb.  "All  right,"  he  grunted.  "Something's  got 
to  be  done,  and  I  suppose  this  is  something." 

"And  that's  all  the  thanks  I  get,"  wailed  Tomlin. 

It  was. 


198  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

The  launch  left  Malita  the  next  morning,  manned  by 
its  owner,  Tomlin,  and  Rands,  and,  after  waving  it  fare- 
well from  the  landing,  Webb  and  I  returned  to  the 
bungalow  in  pensive  silence.  We  both  knew  that  we 
were  a  couple  of  old  fools,  who  had  been  carried 
away  in  a  weak  moment  by  a  full  glass  and  the  conta- 
gious enthusiasm  of  youth.  We  both  knew  that  at 
that  moment  we  would  have  cheerfully  given  what 
little  we  possessed  to  be  able  to  hail  the  launch  and  cry 
off.  Also,  we  both  knew  that  it  was  too  late.  "How 
will  they  do  it?"  I  ventured  to  suggest  at  lunch. 
"Force?" 

Webb  shrugged  his  massive  shoulders  and  gave  his 
attention  to  curried  bush  pig.  There  were  occasions 
when  Webb  was  not  the  best  of  company. 

Toward  evening  two  days  later,  the  launch  came 
back  to  Malita  down  the  golden  pathway  of  the  setting 
sun.  Webb  lowered  the  glasses.  "They've  done  it, 
anyway,"  he  announced,  and  we  strolled  mechanically 
down  to  the  landing. 

Exactly  what  we  expected  to  see  it  is  difficult  to  say. 
Personally,  I  was  conscious  of  alternate  waves  of  be- 
wilderment and  belief  as  the  launch  gave  its  last  de- 
spairing kick  and  sheered  alongside.  At  the  helm  sat 
a  remarkably  pink  young  man  in  immaculate  white 
flannels  and  an  art  tie,  chatting  pleasantly  with  Tom- 
lin. Nares  was  in  his  usual  state  of  filth  and  agitation 
over  his  precious  engine.  Rands  was  making  fast. 
Tomlin  looked  up  and  waved  his  hand  to  us. 
"Cheer-o!"  he  called.  We've  brought  a  visitor." 


WE  OF  MALITA  199 

The  remark  was  accompanied  by  a  prodigious  and 
entirely  uncalled-for  wink  as  the  pink  young  man 
picked  a  discriminating  way  through  the  litter  of  de- 
cayed banana  skins  up  the  rickety  landing  steps. 

"Mr.  Sterling— Webb,  father,"  Tomlin  bawled  after 
him,  presumably  by  way  of  introduction. 

"Awfully  good  of  you,"  drawled  the  pink  young 
man,  shaking  us  warmly  by  the  hand.  "Topping 
place  you  have  here." 

Webb  grunted,  and  I  said  something  idiotic;  then  we 
all  went  up  to  the  bungalow. 

At  the  first  opportunity — while  Sterling  was  under 
the  shower,  to  be  exact — I  tackled  Rands. 

"Don't  know  a  thing,"  he  jerked  at  me — "don't 
know  a  thing  except  that  Tomlin  brought  him  out  of 
the  club  with  a  valise,  and  here  he  is." 

"And  he  doesn't  know?"  I  inquired. 

"Hasn't  a  notion." 

At  that  moment  Sterling  emerged  from  the  shower 
pinker  than  ever.  "Topping  bath,"  he  observed,  and 
floated  into  the  bedroom. 

A  little  later  Tomlin  was  the  centre  of  a  hurried  con- 
clave behind  the  crotons.  "Easy  as  falling  off  a  log," 
he  chortled.  "Not  a  soul  in  the  club,  house  boy  asleep 
as  usual,  jumped  at  the  chance  of  seeing  plantation 
life  on  a  real  South  Sea  island,  and  here  we  are."  He 
panted  and  gazed  round  the  semi-circle  of  faces.  An 
apprehensive  glint  came  into  his  eyes.  "Look  here," 
he  demanded  plaintively,  "you're  not  going  back  on 
the  thing?" 

We  protested  valiantly. 


200  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

At  dinner  our  guest  informed  us  that  Malita  was 
"topping;  simply  topping."  "It's  been  the  dream  of 
my  life  to  see  the  South  Seas,"  he  confessed.  "Of 
course  I  kicked  about  the  Mediterranean  a  bit  in  the 
gov'nor's  yacht,  but  there's  nothing  at  all  like  this — 
so  unsullied,  so  dreamlike.  It's  hard  to  imagine  here 
that  somewhere  people  are  slaving  their  lives  away; 
scrambling  after  money." 

"Sure,"  agreed  Rands  thoughtfully. 

"I  mean,  now,  what  can  you  possibly  want  here?" 
Sterling  proceeded.  "You  have  three  excellent  meals 
a  day,  a  comfortable  house,  and — this."  He  waved  a 
hand  in  the  direction  of  the  blue-black  darkness  out- 
side which  happily  veiled  the  decayed  stumps  of  my 
banana  plants  and  a  pile  of  empty  corned-beef  tins. 
"It's  paintable,"  he  added,  as  though  this  were  the 
acme  of  praise. 

Rands  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  a  strong  emotion. 
"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  confessed.  "Scenery  may 
be  good  to  paint,  but  it's  poor  stuff  to  live  on.  What 
we  want  is  pineapples — pineapples  with  a  capital  P." 

The  slogan  had  been  dragged  from  him.  From  it  he 
slid  into  explanation,  and  before  the  meal  was  over 
Sterling  was  in  possession  of  the  main  facts  of  our  piti- 
ful case.  "Topping!"  was  his  verdict,  pronounced 
over  the  third  glass  of  my  whisky.  "Absolutely  top- 
ping idea.  Pineapples!  And  only  a  thousand  for  a 
plant !  Why,  the  thing's  a  gift.  Here's  to  pineapples ! " 

We  drank  enthusiastically. 

Rands,  with  his  tongue  as  near  hanging  out  as  I  have 
ever  seen  a  man's,  then  proceeded  to  point  out  the 


WE  OF  MALITA  201 

fatal  obstacle  to  the  realization  of  our  dreams.  With 
a  catch  in  his  voice,  he  confessed  that  the  sordid  but 
necessary  thousand  was  not  ours  to  command. 

Sterling  was  sympathetic.  "It's  splendid,"  he  an- 
nounced with  conviction.  "I  think  it's  perfectly 
splendid  how  you  fellows  out  here  on  the  edge  of 
the  world  face  difficulties  that  would  appall  a  meaner 
soul.  Face  them  and  overcome  them,"  he  added 
hopefully. 

"This  one  isn't  overcome,"  growled  Webb,  and  I 
know  his  enormous  foot  was  swinging  under  the  table; 
"or  ever  likely  to  be." 

"Oh,  you  can't  tell  me  that,"  bantered  Sterling, 
"I  know  what  you  fellows  are — splendid,  topping,"  he 
said  meditatively,  refilling  his  glass. 

Then  we  went  out  on  the  veranda. 

Late  that  night  we  of  Malita  assembled  in  the  pack- 
ing shed  and  stared  at  one  another  blankly. 

"Well,  that's  that,"  said  Tomlin. 

"I  believe  the  insufferable  little  tike's  pulling  our 
legs,"  offered  Webb. 

"Nix  on  that,"  snapped  Rands.  "I  know  when  I'm 
being  bull-dozed.  It's  just  natural,  unadulterated 
hide.  You  couldn't  prick  decent  feelings  into  him  with 
a  handspike." 

"And  he's  got  such  lots  and  lots  of  money,"  chanted 
Tomlin  from  his  improvised  stage  on  an  empty  banana 
crate. 

Personally,  I  began  to  feel  uncomfortable,  and  I  know 
that  Webb  looked  it.  Suddenly  he  burst  into  speech: 


202  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"I  have  a  suggestion  to  make — that  we  drop  it.  It's 
crazy.  We're  a  lot  of  damned  fools." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  Rands  spoke. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "It  was  someone  else's  idea; 
someone  else  carried  it  out,  and  you  agreed  to  see  it 
through.  Are  you  going  to  let  us  down?" 

"No,"  said  Webb.  "I  won't  let  anybody  down.  As 
it  happens  we  can  ship  the  young  cub  back,  and  he'll 
never  know  what  he's  missed.  Put  it  to  the  vote. 
.  .  .  But  mind  you,"  he  added,  "if  this  thing  goes 
through,  there  can  be  no  more  half  measures  about  it. 
It  isn't  a  joke.  It's  serious  business.  I've  let  myself 
in  for  it,  and,  if  it  has  to  be  done,  I'll  take  on  the  biggest 
part  of  the  job." 

It  was  the  longest  utterance  we  of  Malita  had  ever 
heard  Webb  make.  It  sobered  even  Tomlin  for  the 
moment. 

"Those  in  favour " 

Two  hands  went  up,  Rands'  and  Tomlin's.  Nares's 
fluttered  up  after  them.  I'm  convinced  he  was  only 
actuated  by  the  thought  that  if  he  didn't  vote  that 
way  his  everlasting  launch  would  have  spluttered  to 
Levuka  and  back  for  nothing.  Webb  contemplated 
the  trio  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows  for  a  moment, 
then  grunted  and  went  out. 

"In  my  opinion "  began  Nares.  We  fell  upon 

him  in  a  simultaneous  paean  of  encouragement.  "In 
my  opinion,"  he  struggled  on,  "the  affair  can  still  be — 
er — handled  on  a  pacific  basis.  Possibly " 

"Why,  sure,"  agreed  Rands.  "It  only  wants  nous, 
tact,  and  you're  the  man,  Nares.  You're  it."  Nares 


WE  OF  MALITA  203 

stared  about  him  with  the  expression  of  a  startled 
rabbit.  "It's  up  to  you  to  tell  him  why  he's 
here,"  pursued  the  inexorable  Rands.  "It's  your  turn 
next." 

Nares  shot  one  fleeting  glance  of  entreaty  in  my 
direction.  It  was  a  horrid  sight.  Such  must  have 
been  the  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  early 
martyrs  under  the  upraised  sword  of 
the  gladiator.  And  I  turned  away 
my  head.  That's  the  sort  of  person 
I  am. 

After  breakfast,  Sterling,  pinker 
and  more  ecstatic  than  ever,  wandered 
off  up  the  beach  with  the  dogs,  a  water-colour  block, 
and  a  paint  box.  He  was  not  going  to  let  his  visit 
interfere  with  our  work,  he  informed  us.  He  could  find 
plenty  to  amuse  him. 

Our  "work"  consisted  in  sitting  on  the  veranda, 
staring  listlessly  at  the  unlovely  remains  of  my  banana 
patch. 

"Only  a  thousand,"  mused  Tomlin,  "and  he's  got 
such  lots  and  lots  of  money."  The  last  part  of  this  ut- 
terance he  had  succeeded  in  rendering  particularly  ob- 
noxious by  setting  it  to  ragtime. 

Sterling  did  not  return  till  afternoon  tea.  In  one 
hand  he  carried  a  rush  basket 'full  of  an  indescribable 
mess,  in  the  other  a  native  fish  spear.  His  shoes  were 
slung  over  his  shoulder,  his  faultless  flannels  rolled  to 
the  knee,  and  his  solar  topee  set  jauntily  on  the  back 
of  his  head. 


204  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Oh,  lor'!"  groaned  Webb,  "it's  going  to  be  'top- 
ping'." 

It  was.  Everything  was.  What  were  those  nimble 
little  fellows  that  dashed  about  with  a  sort  of  mast 
sticking  up,  and  vanished  into  holes?  Soldier  crabs? 
How  topping!  And  those  big  fellows  up  in  a  tree, 
with  eyes,  or  something,  on  the  end  of  a  stalk  a  foot 

long?   Tree  lobsters?   Splendid.   And  this,  and  this 

He  littered  the  veranda  with  every  species  of  South 
Sea  Crustacea — and  there  are  a  few — until  the  place 
was  like  an  insanitary  skating  rink. 

Nares's  hour  of  doom  drew  near.  One  by  one  we 
evaporated  from  the  veranda  and  collected  in  the 
mosquito-proof  office  adjoining  the  living  room  to 
witness  it.  Nares  had  demanded  a  clear  stage  for  his 
operations. 

We  heard  the  two  men  enter  the  living  room,  and 
Nares,  in  a  remarkably  natural  voice,  suggest  whisky 
and  sparklet.  ".  .  .  Of  course,  as  you  see,"  he 
was  saying  in  his  mincing  accents,  "we  are  practically 
ruined.  The  hurricane  swept  everything  before  it. 
Luckily  the  launch  escaped,  or  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  have  done." 

"Quite,"  sympathized  Sterling.  "And  is  that  jolly 
little  launch  your  only  means  of  leaving  the  island?" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Nares.  "We  had  in  mind,  before  the 
hurricane,  of  course,  a  fifty-ton  auxiliary  schooner  to 
carry  all  our  produce,  but  now" — he  giggled  weakly — 
"we  have  no  produce." 

"Quite,"  repeated  Sterling  to  the  accompaniment  of 
complaining  cane  as  he  sank  into  my  only  safe  chair. 


WE  OF  MALITA  205 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  after  what  seemed  a  cen- 
tury by  another  giggle,  even  more  weak. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Nares,  in  tones  intended  to  be 
conversational,  "we  have  racked  our  brains  to  think  of 
some  method  to  raise  money,  only  a  little." 

"Really?"  remarked  Sterling.  "That  should  be 
easy  enough." 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  know  our  difficulties,"  said 
Nares.  "We  are  already  mortgaged  to  the  hilt. 
Only  a  thousand  would  set  us  up  with  a  canning  plant, 
and  the  rest  would  be  plain  sailing." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Sterling  (I  could  feel  Rands's 
fevered  breath  down  the  back  of  my  neck.  Tomlin  was 
on  tiptoe,  with  mouth  agape.  Webb  was  standing 
with  his  grizzled  head  on  one  side  like  an  inquisitive 
hen.  He  is  slightly  deaf  in  one  ear) — "in  that  case,  I 
should  stretch  a  point  to  get  that  thousand." 

"We  have — intend  to,"  Nares  corrected  himself. 
"Fair  means  or  foul,  you  know." 

"Quite,"  agreed  Sterling. 

"In  fact" — again  Nares  had  recourse  to  the  giggle, 
which  I  could  feel  was  rapidly  driving  Webb  berserk — 
"in  fact,"  he  ended  weakly  and  a  trifle  hurriedly,  "we 
conceived  the  idea — rather  daring,  of  course — of  ab- 
ducting some  wealthy  man  and  holding  him  up  to 
ransom." 

There  was  another  brief  but  agonized  pause  before 
Sterling  slapped  his  knee  and  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter.  "Daring?  Not  a  bit.  What's  to  stop 
you?  Topping.  I  should  like  to  see  the  fun." 

Nares  stared  at  him  as  though  fascinated,  then  trailed 


206  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

off  into  imitation  laughter  himself.  The  two  of  them 
sat  there  making  the  most  absurd  noise. 

"You  see "  Nares  had  begun  again,  when  some- 
thing uncommonly  like  an  earthquake  rent  us  of  Malita 
asunder,  and  stumbled  through  the  mosquito  door. 
It  was  Webb,  a  terrible  sight. 

"Stop  your  cackling!"  he  roared  at  Nares.  "And 
you,"  turning  on  Sterling,  "understand  this  now,  if 
you  never  did  before — you're  not  a  guest  here;  you're  a 
hostage.  We  abducted  you.  We'd  have  abducted 
you  by  force  if  we'd  had  to.  We  shall  keep  you  by 
force  if  we  have  to — until  you  hand  over  a  thousand 
cash.  We're  not  asking  for  the  money ;  we're  demand- 
ing it.  It's  robbery.  We're  desperate." 

Webb  came  to  an  abrupt  full  stop.  The  well  of  his 
rhetoric  had  run  dry.  Sterling  turned  slowly  to  Nares. 
He  was  slightly  less  pink  than  usual,  that  was  all. 
"Who  is  this  gentleman?"  he  inquired.  "I  don't  seem 
to  know  him." 

"I'm  not  a  gentleman,"  boomed  Webb.  "I'm  a 
robber.  We're  all  robbers.  Are  you  going  to  part 
up  or  not?  " 

Sterling  looked  up  at  him  serenely;  then,  from  sheer 
force  of  habit,  slipped  a  gold  cigarette  case  from  his 
pocket  and  tapping  one  of  its  contents  on  the  lid. 
"Topping,"  he  murmured  irrelevantly. 

"And  that's  another  thing,"  flashed  Webb.  "Say 
that  again  and  you'll  be  kicked." 

Sterling  regarded  him  in  mild  surprise.  "  Say  what?  " 
he  inquired. 

"Topping." 


WE  OF  MALITA  207 

"Ah,  splendid,"  drawled  Sterling,  after  due  reflection. 

Webb  towered  over  him  like  an  impending  hurri- 
cane. "Are  you  going  to  pay?"  he  demanded. 

"No,"  said  Sterling  deliberately. 

"Very  well,  then."  Webb  shuffled  his  enormous  feet 
on  the  matting  of  the  floor.  "You'll  stay  here  until 
you  do." 

"Nothing  would  please  me  more,"  returned  Sterling, 
and  helped  himself  from  the  tantalus. 

For  a  moment  Webb  seemed  at  a  loss.  Was  our 
tower  of  strength  faltering?  "That  can  soon  be  put 
right,"  he  threatened.  "Think  it  over." 

"Certainly,"  Sterling  agreed.  He  had  now  entirely 
resumed  his  normal  shade  of  pink.  "And  now,  may 
we  return  to  a  less  transpontine  mode  of  intercourse? 
Mr.  Nares  here  was  telling  me  of  some  top — splendid 
scheme  of  raising  money  for  pineapples.  .  .  ." 

"He  daren't  say  it,"  triumphed  Tomlin  in  the  pack- 
ing shed  a  few  hours  later.  "We've  got  him.  Al- 
though I  must  say  he  takes  it  rather  well,  we've  got 
him." 

"Think  so?"  grunted  Webb.  "Seems  to  me  the 

difficulty  will  be  to  get  rid  of  him  without "  His 

voice  rumbled  away  into  ruminative  silence. 

We  hardly  dared  to  look  one  another  in  the  eye. 
The  appalling  possibility  conjured  up  by  Webb's 
unfinished  sentence  left  us  speechless.  He  looked 
round  at  me  with  a  grim  smile  playing  under  his 
moustache. 

"I  thought  you  hadn't  properly  digested  this  thing 


208  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

before  you  set  out  on  it.     We've  got  to  get  that  money 
now." 

What  is  one  to  do  with  a  hostage  who  has  no  desire 
for  freedom?  On  the  contrary,  Sterling  appeared  to 
be  having  the  time  of  his  life.  He  told  us  frankly  that 
he  had  fallen  violently  in  love  with  Malita,  and  if  it 
was  a  pose  it  was  too  cleverly  done  for  us  to  detect. 
Each  day  he  wandered  at  large — the  dry  batteries  had 
been  removed  from  the  launch — and  returned  with 
some  noisome  thing  that  was  a  curio  to  him  and  a  pest 
to  us.  His  thirst  for  island  lore  was  insatiable.  His 
water-colour  sketches  were  eiflier  completely  above 
our  heads  or  else  the  ghastliest  daubs  that  ever  soiled 
paper;  personally,  I  can  never  tell  which.  And  for  us 
the  hard  fact  remained  that  time,  precious  time,  was 
slipping  away  without  any  appreciable  results. 

"I  was  wondering  how  long  you'd  sit  down  under 
this,"  Webb  told  us,  after  some  murmurings  of  dis- 
content at  the  fourth  packing-shed  convention,  "and 
you  were  all  so  full  of  ideas  at  first.  Perhaps  you're 
for  climbing  out  now?" 

We  protested  violently. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Webb,  "what  about  it?" 

Rands  took  him  by  the  buttonhole.  I  think  Rands 
must  have  been  an  insurance  agent  in  Denver.  "See 
here,  Webb,  old  man,"  he  crooned.  "You're  the 
doctor;  there's  no  getting  away  from  that,  and " 

"I  knew  I  should  have  to  be,"  grumbled  Webb. 

And  the  net  result  was  Sterling's  confinement  in  the 
smallest  and  hottest  room  in  the  bungalow.  There  he 
sat  in  silk  pyjamas,  under  a  corrugated  iron  roof,  and 


WE  OF  MALITA  209 

sizzled,  the  deathlong  day.  He  grew  less  pink  and  a 
good  deal  thinner,  but,  as  he  pointed  out,  it  gave  him  a 
top — splendid  chance  of  working  out  the  plans  of  his 
model  village  scheme. 

"They'll  be  instituting  inquiries,"  suggested  Nares 
in  his  best  startled-rabbit  manner,  after  the  third  day  of 
the  melting  process.  "We  have,  as  it  were,  launched 
an  avalanche — 

Webb  gave  him  a  look  that  blasted  him  on  the  spot. 

"There's  nothing  else  for  it,"  said  Rands  with  slow 
deliberation.  "I  guess  the  old  hands  at  this  game  knew 
their  business  all  right." 

"But— what— how?" 

Instinctively  we  gathered  closer  in  an  awed  circle, 
which  Webb  broke  up  by  grunting  with  unprecedented 
vigour,  and  stalking  from  the  shed.  I'm  certain  it  was 
only  his  contempt  for  our  weak-kneed  attitude  that  kept 
us  up  to  the  mark. 

That  evening  Webb  was  observed  passing  a  length 
of  stout  cord  over  a  beam  of  the  veranda  roof. 

"What's  the  game?"  asked  Rands. 

Webb  did  not  answer.  He  completed  the  task  and 
then  turned  to  me.  "Now,"  he  said,  "just  tie  that  as 
tight  as  you  can  around  my  thumbs — there,  that'll  do. 
Now,  you  two,  pull  on  the  other  end." 

We  obeyed  mechanically.  The  toes  of  Webb's  enor- 
mous feet  just  trailed  the  ground. 

"Now  swing  me  slowly — one,  two,  three,  four.  Now 
let  me  down." 

He  stood  there  while  we  untied  his  thumbs,  then  went 
over  to  the  tantalus. 


210  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"That,  morning  and  afternoon,  increasing  one  each 
time,"  he  growled.  "Saw  it  done  once." 

Rands  and  I  melted  gracefully  into  the  landscape. 

"Whew!"  he  exclaimed,  when  we  were  clear  of  the 
bungalow.  "Our  Mr.  Webb  is  a  sticker." 

"Didn't  you  know  that?"  said  I. 

We  walked  in  pensive  silence  for  a  space. 

"Wonder  if  he  heard?"  suggested  Rands.  "That 
house  is  like  a  band-box." 

"I  don't  see  that  it  makes  any  difference  if  he  did," 
said  I. 

Rands  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  his  attention 
to  the  view.  "Pineapples,"  he  breathed.  "Can't 
you  see  'em  on  that  hill?  And  a  cunning  little  plant 
on  those  flats,  and  an  overhead  cable.  .  .  ." 

Yes,  it  was  worth  it. 

The  next  morning  a  perfectly  peaceful  sunrise  was 
ruined  by  the  silly,  ineffectual  noises  of  Nares.  I  first 
heard  him  running — actually  running  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning — up  the  powdered  coral  pathway  to  the 
bungalow,  then  the  hurried  patter  of  his  feet  on  the 
veranda  steps,  and  finally  his  panting  breath. 

"She's  gone,"  he  squealed.     "The  launch  has  gone." 

There  were  the  rumblings  of  an  earthquake  in  the 
room  opposite  mine,  and  Webb's  pyjamaed  figure  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway. 

"Where  did  you  put  those  dry  batteries?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"They  were  in  my  room,"  panted  Nares;  "under  the 
bed.  I— they " 

Webb  broke  open  the  door  of  Sterling's  oven  with  a 


WE  OF  MALITA  211 

gnarled  toe.  It  was  no  longer  Sterling's.  It  was 
empty. 

"That's  broken  it,"  said  Webb,  and  climbed  into 
bed  again,  leaving  Nares  still  gesticulating  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

"B-but  the  launch,"  he  wailed;  "she'll  never  pass 
Vuna  Point  with  him  driving  her.  She'll — 

"She'll  go  quite  far  enough  for  his  purposes,"  boomed 
Webb.  "Go  to  bed,  you  ass." 

"He'll  go  to  Suva,"  said  Rands  of  the  nimble  mind. 
He  had  been  sleeping  on  the  veranda.  Rands  affects 
a  hammock  and  a  nightshirt  for  some  extraordinary 
reason.  "He'll  go  to  Suva,  and  bring  along  the  sheriff 
— I  mean  the  police,  and— 

"Go  to  bed,"  repeated  Webb. 

"And  we  can't  get  away,"  ended  Tomlin  brightly. 

Sterling's  escape  completely  broke  up  Webb.  He, 
even  he,  who  I  knew  could  not  have  hurt  a  fly  in  or- 
dinary circumstances,  had  nerved  himself  up  to  the 
necessary  pitch  for  torture,  and  now  the  relapse  had  set 
in.  Each  day  and  all  day  we  scoured  the  horizon  for 
the  craft  bearing  our  fate,  but  none  appeared.  We 
could  almost  hear  the  pink  young  man  chortling  at  our 
suspense:  "Topping!"  he  would  be  able  to  call  it  with- 
out restraint.  We  of  Malita  grew  peevish  under  the 
strain,  and  blamed  one  another  like  fishwives.  Webb 
alone  sat  silent,  staring  out  to  sea  and  swinging  his 
foot. 

"Five  years,"  Tomlin  would  chirp;  "about  five 
years,  I  should  think,  with  a  possible  remission  for  good 
conduct." 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Say,"  Rands  would  jerk  out,  "I  don't  know  if  I 
can  bash  you,  Tomlin,  but  I'll  sure  try  if  you  don't 
quit  that." 

And  Nares  would  look  from  one  to  the  other  with  the 
same  silly  startled  expression  on  his  rabbit  face,  and  we 
all  knew  he  was  thinking  of  his  launch. 

Oh,  it  was  a  ghastly  week.  Truly,  Sterling's  venge- 
ance. 

Then,  out  of  the  blue,  our  fate  approached  us,  climb- 
ing down  from  the  horizon  in  a  solitary  speck  that  re- 
solved itself  into  a  launch — two  launches,  one  towing 
the  other.  The  first  was  a  noble  affair  of  white  enamel 
and  glittering  brass;  I  could  see  Nares's  mouth  watering 
as  he  looked  at  it.  The  other  was  his  own. 

"Say,"  exclaimed  Rands,  with  the  glasses  to  his  eyes, 
"it's  him,  all  right;  I  can  see  Pink-and- White.  There 
are  two  others  in  topees,  and  the  rest's  nigs.  What  do 
we  do  about  it?" 

"Do?"  repeated  Webb  dully;  it  was  the  first  time  he 
had  spoken  that  day.  "It's  the  Government,  and  a 
squad  of  comic-opera  police.  Do?  Sit  here  and  wait 
for  'em.  What  else?" 

"Not  by  a  jugful,"  cried  the  hopeful  Rands.  "We'll 
get  up  into  the  hills — hide.  They'll  think  we've 
cleared." 

"How?"  droned  Webb. 

"Swum,  flown — anything  they  like.  Aw,  make  a 
fight  for  it,  Webb." 

"Too  hot,"  said  Webb. 

It  took  a  good  quarter  of  an  hour  to  argue  Webb  out 


WE  OF  MALITA  213 

of  his  chair  on  the  veranda,  and  then  he  only  came  to 
satisfy  us. 

We  of  Malita  trailed  into  the  hills,  a  harassed  and 
perspiring  flock  of  refugees.  From  a  ledge  high  up  on 
the  volcanic  rock  we  looked  down  on  our  pygmy  world — 
the  bandbox  bungalow,  the  pathetic  square  of  black  dots 
that  had  once  been  a  banana  patch,  the  landing  like  a 
centipede  thrusting  its  body  into  the  fair  face  of  the 
Pacific.  "It's  not  a  bad  old  spot,  you  know,"  mused 
Tomlin  sentimentally.  His  words  echoed  the  thoughts 
in  each  one  of  our  minds.  Malita  was  very  dear  now 
that  she  was  slipping  from  us. 

"If  we  can  only  stick  it  out  a  day  or  two,"  Rands 
suggested,  "we  might  be  able  to  slip  down  in  the  night 
and  vamose  in  the  launch.  What's  the  matter  with 
Samoa  or  Tonga?" 

"It's  the  Government,"  droned  Webb,  his  every  word 
pulverizing  Rands's  ideas  like  a  sledge  hammer.  "It's 
a  man  hunt.  Ever  seen  a  Government  man  hunt? 
They've  got  us  labelled  and  pigeonholed  in  their  old  barn 
at  Suva  by  this  time,  and  wherever  we  go,  whatever  we 
do,  they'll  be  somewhere  in  the  background.  Slow, 
but — oh,  lor'! — sure." 

There  was  deathly  silence  as  the  two  launches  came 
to  rest  and  spilled  their  pygmy  people  onto  the  landing. 
Sterling  led  the  procession  to  the  bungalow,  and  without 
hesitation,  passed  inside,  followed  by  the  Government. 
The  police  squatted  in  a  formal  row  in  the  com- 
pound, while  one  of  their  number  remained  with  the 
launch. 

"That's  that,"  remarked  Tomlin. 


214  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Rats  in  a  trap!"  murmured  Nares,  presumably  to 
add  to  the  general  gaiety. 

Presently  the  three  white  men  came  out,  the  police 
sprang  to  their  feet,  and  the  entire  cortege  spread 
itself  over  Malita.  Throughout  the  brazen  day  we 
lay  on  our  ledge  in  agonized  suspense.  No  one  came 
near  us.  We  were  hungry,  aching,  and,  above  all, 
thirsty. 

Toward  evening  the  party  returned  along  the  beach 
from  the  direction  of  the  native  village.  Sterling  and 
the  Government  took  up  their  quarters  in  my  bungalow, 
and  the  police  disposed  themselves  among  the  buris 
(outhouses)  in  the  compound.  A  yellow,  homelike  glow 
sprang  into  being  at  the  living-room  window,  and  we 
pictured  the  pink  young  man  telling  the  Government 
over  a  glass  of  amber  liquid  that  something  or  other 
was  "topping." 

Then  it  rained — the  warm,  penetrating  douche  of  the 
tropics. 

Webb  sat  with  his  feet  dangling  over  the  ledge  like 
overweighted  pendulums,  the  lining  of  the  white  pulp 
that  had  once  been  his  solar  topee  emitting  green  cat- 
aracts down  his  sodden  ducks. 

"This  will  go  on,  and  on,  and  on  until  they  get  us," 
he  rumbled.     "They've  written  a  'report'  on  their  first 
day's  'investigations.'     There'll  be  another  to-morrow, 
and  another  the  day  after  that,  until  they'll  be  able  to 
write  down,  very  neatly:  'On  January  26,  at  10  A.  M, 

the  prisoners  were  discovered '  Pah!"  he  bellowed, 

and  scrambled  to  his  feet.     "What's  the  use?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  inquired  someone. 


WE  OF  MALITA  215 

"Go  down  and  give  myself  up,"  he  retorted.  "A 
cell's  dry." 

And — would  you  believe  it? — we  all  followed  him. 
Like  a  flock  of  sodden  sheep  we  trailed  down  that 
hillside  and  up  the  bungalow  path.  What  we  must 
have  looked  like  standing  in  pools  of  our  own  making 
on  the  veranda,  I  have  no  idea,  though  I  believe 
Sterling  has. 

Webb  marched  in  on  a  homely  little  scene.  The 
Government  was  leaning  over  a  plan  of  Malita  out- 
spread on  my  table.  Sterling  was  sprawled  in  my 
favourite  chair,  blowing  smoke  rings  from  a  noble-look- 
ing cigar  and  staring  dreamily  at  the  ceiling.  "Where 
on  earth  have  you  been?"  he  demanded  at  sight  of  the 
apparition. 

"Little  pleasure  excursion  up  the  hillside,"  said 
Webb.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  us?" 

"Sorry,"  Sterling  apologized,  and  poured  out  five 
ample  tots  of  a  brandy  that  was  new  to  me  but  un- 
commonly mellow.  "Hadn't  you  better  change?"  he 
suggested. 

We  changed  in  stony  silence. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  thank  you  for  the 
top — splendid  time  you  gave  me,  and  apologize  for  my 
hasty  departure.  That  room — 

"We'd  rather  you  wouldn't  be  funny  about  it,"  said 
Webb.  "Come  to  the  point." 

"Very  well,"  agreed  Sterling;  "what  about  those 
pineapples?" 

"Pineapples!" 

"Yes;  you're  not  going  to  tell  me  you  fellows  went 


216  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

through  the  agonies  you  must  have  suffered  without 
there  being  something  in  this  pineapple  idea?" 

"Who  are  these?"  demanded  Webb,  suddenly  in- 
dicating the  gaping  Government  with  a  hairy  hand. 

"Surveyors,"  said  Sterling.  "W7ho  did  you  think 
they  were?" 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  said  Webb;."but " 

A  pained  expression  passed  over  Sterling's  pink  face. 
"You're  not  going  to  let  me  down,"  he  wailed —  "after 
me  buying  the  island  for  you,  mortgages  and  all?" 

And  to  this  day  Sterling  cannot  be  brought  to  believe 
that  Webb's  intentions  with  the  rope  on  the  veranda 
were  serious.  The  argument  invariably  causes  one  to 
say:  "Top — splendid!"  and  the  other  to  swing  an 
enormous  foot,  when  we  foregather  on  the  veranda 
of  a  large  white  bungalow  overlooking  the  Malita  Pine- 
apple Estate  Incorporated. 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER 

SIMULTANEOUSLY  with  the  roar  of  the  explo- 
sion, a  geyser  of  earth,  roots,  and  stones  shot 
skyward,  to  fall  rattling  amongst  the  neighbour- 
ing trees,  and  again  the  silence  of  the  bush  closed 
down. 

"Five!"  counted  Creswell  aloud,  and  grinned  through 
his  sweat.  He  had  taken  to  talking  to  himself  of  late, 
though  he  had  no  notion  of  it.  A  man  has  little  time 
for  noticing  anything  besides  his  work  when  he  battles 
with  the  Queensland  bush. 

"Not  so  bad,"  he  added  judicially,  inspecting  the 
churned-up  earth  and  root  ends  that  were  all  that  the 
dynamite  charge  had  left  of  a  six-foot  eucalyptus 
stump.  "Not  so  bad." 

With  hardly  a  pause,  he  went  on  to  the  next,  a  stub- 
born blood- wood,  and  opened  the  attack  with  a  crow- 
bar. It  was  killing  work,  and  it  was  killing  Creswell, 
though  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  ridicule  such  a 
suggestion.  No  one  did  suggest  it,  because  no  one  in 
the  Nambye  district  cared  one  way  or  another.  If  a 
crazy  "new  chum"  chose  to  work  himself  to  death  in 
the  bush,  whose  business  was  it  but  his  own?  That 
was  Nambye's  attitude.  Such  a  thing  had  happened 
before,  and  would  no  doubt  happen  again,  until  the 
over-zealous  pioneer  realized  that  the  correct  method 

217 


218  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

of  acquiring  a  pineapple  plantation  is  to  relieve  his 
neighbours  of  their  played-out  acres  at  a  fancy  figure. 

But  then  Nambye  did  not  know.  No  one  knew, 
except  Joyce  Helliar,  what  manner  of  fever  it  was  that 
consumed  Bob  Creswell,  and  she  kept  that  knowledge 
to  herself.  It  was  doubtful  if  Nambye  would  under- 
stand. Few  men  suffer  from  overscrupulousness,  and 
that  was  what  ailed  Creswell.  Two  years  ago  the 
flick  of  a  coin  had  decided  whether  he  or  his  partner 
Soames  should  go  to  the  War.  Soames  had  won,  and 
Creswell  had  never  forgotten  it.  Soames  was  to  fight 
his  country's  enemies;  Creswell  was  to  fight  nothing 
more  romantic  than  the  Queensland  bush  and  a  bank 
overdraft.  The  humiliation  of  it!  And  he  had  given 
his  word — there  was  no  wriggling  out — his  word  that 
he  would  "look  after  the  place — and  Joyce";  that  was 
how  the  happy-go-lucky  Soames  had  put  it,  with  a 
nudged  elbow  and  a  grin  at  the  last  injunction  that 
was  entirely  lost  on  his  more  stolid  partner  Three 
times  Creswell  had  written  asking  to  be  let  off,  pleading 
with  Soames  that  it  was  more  than  he  could  bear; 
but  he  received  no  reply.  Soames  had  only  written 
twice,  soon  after  he  left,  the  chatty,  inconsequential 
letters  of  a  man  without  a  care  in  the  world,  and  his 
name  had  never  appeared  in  the  casualty  lists.  Until 
that  happened  Creswell  considered  himself  bound. 

"Look  after  the  place — and  Joyce!"  That  was  all 
he  had  to  go  upon,  and  he  had  gone  upon  it  to  such 
effect  that  five  acres  were  already  bearing,  another 
five  of  virgin  bush  were  cleared  and  ready  for  the 
plow,  the  overdraft  was  at  least  stationary,  Joyce 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER        219 

was  as  well  as  a  perfectly  healthy  young  woman  can  be, 
and  he  had  reduced  himself  to  the  semblance  of  a 
scarecrow.  A  fool?  Perhaps;  but  some  men  are  built 
like  that. 

Joyce  dismounted  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  a  cool 
white  figure  against  the  sweltering  background  of  the 
bush,  and  coo-ee'd  twice  before  Creswell  looked  up 
and  came  shambling  toward  her.  His  beard  was  rather 
more  ragged  than  ever,  she  noticed;  his  clothes,  clotted 
and  smeared  with  red  earth,  seemed  to  hang  from  his 
broad,  angular  shoulders.  The  inevitable  question  was 
in  his  eyes,  and  Joyce  met  it  with  a  smile  and  a  shake 
of  the  head. 

"I  can't  make  it  out,"  he  said,  sitting  in  the  grass 
beside  her  and  scraping  the  earth  from  his  boots  with  a 
twig.  He  always  said  that,  and  Joyce's  reply  was  in- 
variably the  same. 

"No  news  is  good  news,  remember."  Then  Creswell 
would  subject  her  to  his  slow,  appraising  scrutiny,  and 
talk  about  "the  place,"  always  about  "the  place." 

The  usual  programme  was  proceeding  without  a  hitch,, 
when  Joyce  introduced  an  entirely  unlooked-for  re- 
mark: 

"Have  you  had  any  dinner?" 

It  had  a  marked  effect  on  Creswell.  He  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  minute  description  of  blasting  operations, 
and  he  stopped  dead,  staring  at  her  in  a  daze. 

"Yes — that  is,  I  think  so,"  he  faltered. 

"But  you're  not  quite  sure,"  said  Joyce  gravely. 
"Well,  perhaps  you  can  find  room  for  these." 

She  watched  him  as  he  sat  munching  the  sandwiches 


220  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

she  had  brought,  his  eyes  never  leaving  his  handiwork 
out  in  the  clearing. 

"Not  so  bad,  is  it?"  He  nodded  in  the  direction  of 
the  dynamite  debris.  "Five  in  a  week.  It'll  please 
Clem." 

"If  it  doesn't,  it  ought  to,"  said  Joyce,  with  unusual 
asperity.  The  sight  of  Creswell  that  morning  had 
somehow  come  as  a  shock. 

He  regarded  her  in  blank  amazement  for  a  moment. 
To  Creswell  such  a  remark  savoured  almost  of  sacrilege. 

"I  mean  it,"  she  added  firmly.  "I  think  he's  very 
lucky  to  have  a  partner  to  carry  on  as  you  are,  and — 
and  he  ought  to  write  and  say  so." 

Creswell  looked  away  across  the  clearing  with  a 
puzzled  frown.  He  had  always  regarded  women  as 
peculiar,  but  there  was  something  radically  wrong  here. 
She  was  thinking  of  him — him  instead  of  Soames. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said  patiently.  "I  expect 
he  has  plenty  to  do  without  writing — plenty  to  do. 
Besides" — he  turned  with  a  sudden  earnestness — 
"what  is  anything — anything  that  I  can  do  here  com- 
pared with  what  he  is  doing  over  there?" 

Joyce  did  not  answer.  What  could  she  say?  That 
he,  Creswell,  would  have  found  time  to  write  under 
any  circumstances?  That  it  was  not  his  fault,  but  his 
misfortune  that  he  was  not  "over  there,"  too,  and  that 
he  was  paying  for  it  doublefold?  In  short,  that  Cres- 
well was  worth  three  of  Soames,  anyhow?  When  is  it 
possible  for  a  woman  to  say  what  is  in  her  mind?  And 
so  Joyce  Helliar  did  not  answer.  She  was  sorry  now 
that  she  had  said  so  much. 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER        221 

He  showed  her  "the  place",  as  though  she  had  not 
seen  it  from  end  to  end  a  hundred  times.  The  young 
pines  were  coming  on,  weren't  they?  First  crop  in 
another  three  months,  and  then — down  with  the  over- 
draft! She  followed  his  gaunt,  restless  figure  between 
the  rows,  and  watched  the  pleasure  lighting  his  eyes 
when  she  made  an  admiring  comment.  She  found  that 
— "Clem  would  like  to  see  that"  pleased  him  most. 

He  even  demonstrated  for  her  benefit,  and  with 
child-like  pride,  the  workings  of  the  latest  addition  to 
the  corrugated-iron  humpy*  on  the  top  of  the  hill — a 
real  live  shower-bath,  consisting  of  a  riddled  kerosene 
tin  filled  with  water  and  hoisted  by  a  rope  and  pulley. 

"Can't  you  just  see  him  wriggling  and  spluttering 
under  it,  after  a  hard  day  in  the  bush?"  he  demanded 
triumphantly. 

Joyce  admitted  that  she  could,  though  at  that  par- 
ticular moment  she  was  paying  more  attention  to  the 
fact  that  CreswelPs  trousers  were  upheld  with  wire 
nails  instead  of  buttons,  and  that  his  mouth  had  taken 
to  twitching. 

That  night  the  dry  spell  broke.  It  began  with 
rain  that  beat  a  welcome  tattoo  on  the  roof  of  Creswell's 
humpy. 

"Good!"  he  muttered,  and  lay  staring  up  at  the 
ridge  pole  with  a  contented  smile.  It  was  just  what 
the  young  pines  wanted. 

But  what  they  did  not  want  was  precisely  what  the 
playful  Queensland  climate  saw  fit  to  give  them  during 
the  next  two  hours.  The  clamour  overhead  broke  into 

*Cabin. 


£22  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

a  deafening  crescendo.  The  roof  trembled  and  sagged 
as  though  under  the  assault  of  battering-rams.  With 
his  face  pressed  close  to  the  window-pane,  Creswell 
looked  out  through  a  sheet  of  falling  water,  and,  by 
the  fitful  gleam  of  lightning,  caught  distorted  glimpses 
of  red  earth  churned  to  a  morass,  of  thriving  paw-paw 
trees  beaten  to  a  pulp.  And  this  was  on  the  hilltop. 
What  of  the  young  pines  on  the  slope?  He  flung  open 
the  door  and  went  outside.  At  the  first  impact  he  was 
beaten  to  his  knees,  so  he  crawled — crawled  on  hands 
and  knees  down  the  bed  of  a  cataract  that  was  the 
slope  of  the  hill.  He  could  see  nothing,  but  he 
could  feel,  and  he  must  know.  Inaction  was  the  hell 
of  it! 

Things  jostled  him  and  swept  by  in  a  turmoil  of 
water.  He  wondered  vaguely  what  they  were.  His 
wondering  developed  into  a  stubborn  refusal  to  believe 
what  they  were,  until  his  hand  went  out  involuntarily 
and  grasped  an  uprooted  pineapple  plant.  Then  he 
knew.  There  was  an  ever-growing  dump  of  them  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  against  this  he  sank  ex- 
hausted. 

He  was  aroused  by  brilliant  sunshine  and  the  de- 
risive call  of  a  "laughing  jackass."*  What  could  be 
more  appropriate?  Creswell  laughed,  too — a  mirthless 
sound  that  came  from  the  soul.  The  world  was  still 
in  existence,  then,  the  same  old  world  of  rolling  red- 
earth  hills,  bush,  and  sunshine;  only  the  puny  works 
of  man  had  passed.  The  young  pines  were  no  more. 
It  was  as  though  in  a  frenzy  the  fingers  of  some  giant 


*An  Australian  bird. 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER         223 

hand  had  descended  on  the  fair  face  of  the  hillside  and 
clawed  it  to  ribbons. 

Creswell  rose  slowly  and  plodded  through  ankle-deep 
mud  to  the  humpy.  There  he  methodically  prepared 
breakfast,  and  an  hour  later  had  resumed  operations  on 
the  refractory  bloodwood  stump  with  a  crowbar. 

It  was  so  that  Joyce  found  him  when  she  dismounted 
at  the  edge  of  the  clearing.  One  glimpse  of  the  chaos 
on  the  hillside  was  enough;  her  glance  returned  to  the 
dishevelled  figure  at  work  on  the  bloodwood  stump,  and 
a  mist  came  into  her  eyes.  She  could  not  bring  herself 
to  speak  when  he  came  toward  her. 

"Nasty  damp  night,"  he  said,  with  a  wry  smile,  and 
proceeded  to  scrape  the  mud  from  his  boots  with  a 
twig. 

Involuntarily  her  hand  went  out. 

"Bob,"  she  said  softly— "oh,  Bob!" 

He  turned  and  looked  into  her  tear-filled  eyes,  which 
caused  him  to  look  away  again. 

"More  than  half  my  fault,"  he  jerked  out.  "Might 
have  known  that  slope  was  a  bit  too  steep.  The  other 
will  be  better — when  it's  cleared." 

"It's  not  that,  Bob — not  the  place.  What  does  it 
matter  compared  with — with  other  things?" 

He  did  not  answer.  Soames  might  have  made 
things  a  bit  clearer  before  he  went  away,  Creswell  re- 
flected. It  made  it  difficult  to  know  just  what  to  say 
to  a  woman  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  What  did  the  place 
matter?  Wasn't  it  clear  enough  that  it  meant  every- 
thing to  the  two  of  them — a  home,  a  future?  That 
when  Soames  came  back  he,  Creswell,  would  discreetly 


224  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

remove  himself,  and  that  this,  the  little  he  could  do  for 
his  partner,  was  all  that  had  kept  him  going  during  the 
past  nightmare  months,  all  that  spurred  him  even 
now  to  fresh  endeavour?  Evidently  not.  There  was 
a  hitch  somewhere.  He  stared  helplessly  across  the 
clearing. 

Her  voice  seemed  to  be  coming  from  a  long  way  off, 
but  he  heard  it.  He  distinctly  heard  her  saying. 
".  .  .  It's  not  the  place,  Bob;  it's  you,"  and  the 
words  caused  his  clasped  hands  to  tighten  their  grip. 

"I?"  he  demanded  harshly.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Can't  you  see?"  questioned  Joyce.  "Can't  you 
see  that  it  isn't  right  for  you  to  go  on  and  on  like  this — 
that  no  man  can  stand  it?" 

"Clem's  standing  it,"  grinned  Creswell. 

"Not  without  a  rest,"  she  objected  quietly — "not 
without  a  single  break,  alone  in  the  bush,  month  after 
month,  year  after  year.  He  at  least  has  excitement, 
change,  people  to  talk  to — oh,  all  the  things  that  a  man 
can't  do  without  and  remain 

"Yes?" 

"A  man,"  she  ended  desperately. 

"Thanks,"  said  Creswell,  staring  at  his  boots. 

"It's  the  truth,"  flashed  Joyce.  "Take  a  little- 
ever  such  a  little — holiday.  Come  down  to  Nambye 
and  stay  with  Father  and  me  for  a  week.  There's  ten- 
nis and — and  a  piano.  Anything  for  a  change."  She 
took  hold  of  his  arm  and  shook  him  gently.  "Do, 
Bob— forme!" 

Creswell  shrank  from  her.  Suddenly  he  was  afraid, 
mortally  afraid  of  himself.  After  all  these  months 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER        225 

and  years  of  iron  discipline,  it  had  come  to  this!  And 
what  if  some  day  this  same  discipline  failed?  Such  a 
contingency  had  never  presented  itself  before.  The 
mere  thought  of  it  now  frightened  him  into  speech. 

"Thanks,"  he  muttered,  a  senseless  smile  twisting  his 
lips.  "But  why  all  this  trouble  over  me?" 

He  was  aware  that  she  moved  away  from  him,  but 
he  dared  not  look  round,  not  until  he  heard  the  beat 
of  her  pony's  hoofs  and  caught  a  glint  of  white  vanish- 
ing amongst  the  trees. 

So  in  some  way  he  had  offended  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  as  well.  He  walked  slowly  across  the  clearing 
and  picked  up  the  crowbar. 

Then  came  the  armistice,  and  not  long  afterward  a 
telegram  for  Joyce.  It  was  from  Soames,  and  it  in- 
vited her  and  Creswell  to  dinner  at  an  hotel  in  Brisbane. 
She  smiled  in  spite  of  herself — it  was  so  exactly 
like  Clem.  But  the  smile  died  from  her  lips  as  she 
glanced  toward  the  hills,  and  she  went  to  Brisbane 
alone. 

At  the  hotel  an  immaculate  individual  in  khaki  met 
her  in  the  vestibule.  It  was  Clem — Clem  with  such  a 
prodigious  difference  that  for  a  moment  she  was  at  a 
loss.  But  only  for  a  moment.  She  soon  found  him  to 
be  the  same  old  Clem,  boyish  of  face  and  manner, 
care-free,  irresponsible,  skimming  over  the  surface  of 
life  with  his  usual  adroitness.  He  had  changed  in 
nothing  but  his  clothes,  she  decided. 

"Where's  Bob?"  he  asked  suddenly,  as  though  his 
partner's  absence  had  only  just  struck  him. 

"He's  not  well,"  said  Joyce. 


226  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Poor  old  beggar!     Still  taking  life  too  seriously?" 

She  nodded. 

"Why  didn't  you  write,  Clem?" 

Soames  looked  up  from  his  soup  and  laughed. 

"I  should  like  to  know  how  many  times  I  meant  to," 
he  said;  "but  something  always  came  in  the  way.  Be- 
sides, if  I  had,  there  would  have  been  nothing  to  say 
but  mud,  shells,  and  again  mud.  You  saw  it  all  in  the 
papers." 

"Yes,"  said  Joyce. 

"But  I  can't  complain.  Done  pretty  well,  and  the 
life  does  get  a  grip  on  you.  I  couldn't  do  anything 
else  now — somehow  everything  seems  so  small.  All 
the  same."  he  added  thoughtfully,  "I  should  like  to 
have  seen  old  Bob." 

Joyce  found  herself  staring  unseeingly  at  one  of  his 
glittering  buttons. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  see  him?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"Don't  see  how  I  can,"  said  Soames,  crumbling  the 
bread  at  the  side  of  his  plate.  "I  only  came  over  in 
charge  of  a  repatriated  draft.  I  ought  to  sail  to- 
morrow." 

"Then "  But  Joyce  stopped.  The  futility  of 

what  she  was  going  to  say  to  this  man  struck  her 
dumb.  Instead,  she  leant  over  the  table,  with  one 
hand  unconsciously  extended  on  the  cloth.  "Clem," 
she  said,  "I  want  you  to  listen." 

He  looked  up  at  that. 

"  Clem,  you  must  see  Bob."  Something  in  her  voice 
startled  Soames  into  attentive  silence.  "You  must," 
she  repeated,  with  a  defiant  toss  of  the  head;  "you  owe 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER        227 

it  to  him.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  went  on 
hurriedly;  "everything's  so  small — it  must  be,  after 
all  you've  seen  and  done.  'The  place'  means  nothing 
to  you  now,  but  it  does  to  Bob.  It's — it's  his  life. 
You  don't  know  what  he  has  been  through  for  you." 

"Forme?" 

"Yes.  I  know  it  must  sound  comic,  but  it's  the 
truth.  I  can't  explain.  You  must  see,  then  perhaps 
you'll  understand." 

Soames  was  as  perturbed  as  he  ever  allowed  himself 
to  be.  In  rather  a  bewildered  state  of  mind  he  left  his 
servant  to  pack,  and  rushed  up  to  Nambye  the  next 
morning  in  the  fastest  car  Brisbane  had  to  offer.  He 
left  it  in  the  village  and  trudged  alone  up  a  red-earth 
bush  track  until  he  came  to  a  small  square  clearing  in 
the  surrounding  sea  of  eucalyptus  trees. 

At  the  slip  rails  his  eye  encountered  in  turn  a  cor- 
rugated iron  humpy  on  the  hilltop,  a  few  tree  stumps, 
and  a  red-earth  slope  with  what  appeared  to  be  a  rub- 
bish heap  at  the  bottom.  This  was  "the  place"  as 
Soames  saw  it. 

At  the  crest  of  the  hill  he  caught  sight  of  an  exceed- 
ingly tall  thin  man  at  work  on  a  tree  stump,  with  a 
crowbar.  This  was  his  partner. 

"Hullo,  old  man!"  he  called. 

Creswell  turned,  stood  for  a  moment  with  drooping 
jaw,  then  came  shambling  toward  him.  It  was  so 
that  the  partners  met  after  three  years. 

During  the  next  hour  it  was  given  Soames  to  under- 
stand. He  marvelled  at  the  destruction  of  five  stumps 
per  week.  He  exonerated  his  partner  from  all  blame 


228  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

for  the  rubbish  heap  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and 
waxed  equally  eloquent  over  the  kerosene-tin  shower 
bath  and  the  fact  that  the  bank  overdraft  was  station- 
ary. He  even  ate  with  apparent  "relish  the  damper  and 
salt  beef  that  awaited  them  in  the  humpy.  But  where 
he  surpassed  himself  was  after  the  meal,  when  he  went 
over  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out,  wondering 
how  he  was  going  to  tell  his  partner  that  he  had  pre- 
cisely two  hours  in  which  to  catch  the  steamer. 

"  Ton  my  word,  old  man,"  he  said,  taking  the  deep 
breath  of  the  diver  before  the  plunge,  "you've  done 
such  wonders  with  'the  place'  I  hate  leaving  it." 

There  followed  an  awkward  silence,  so  he  hurried  on — 

"The  new  slope's  going  to  be  a  topper,  I  can  see  that; 
and,  as  you  say,  the  other  will  do  for  oranges — er — 
but  the  fact  is,  I've  found  the  only  job  I'm  any  good  at, 
and — well,  I  must  be  getting  on  with  it." 

He  turned.  Creswell  was  standing  beside  the  table, 
with  set  mouth  and  something  in  his  eyes  that  Soames 
was  at  a  loss  to  understand. 

"What  d'you  mean?"  he  said  shortly. 

Soames  had  faced  a  variety  of  things  in  the  past  three 
years,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  any  of  them  had  been  more 
objectionable  than  this.  He  squared  his  shoulders  to 
it. 

"I  mean  that  soldiering  has  got  me  for  keeps,  Bob," 
he  said.  "I  believe  it's  what  I  was  made  for — I  can't 
see  anything  else.  I  never  was  any  good  here.  I  never 
should  be;  you  know  that." 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  'the  place'?"  said  Cres- 
well. 


THE  PREPOSTEROUS  PARTNER        229 

Soames  nodded  and  took  refuge  in  pacing  the  floor. 

"You  can  buy  me  out,  or  something,"  he  suggested 
airily.  "It's  hard  to  explain,  but 

"You  needn't  trouble,"  Creswell  interposed.  "I 
understand  perfectly.  But — what  about  Joyce?" 

Soames  stopped  in  his  stride. 

"Joyce?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  said  Creswell  doggedly.  "Perhaps  you've 
forgotten  what  your  last  words  to  me  were?" 

Soames  remained  motionless,  thinking  furiously. 
Then  quite  suddenly  he  remembered.  He  saw  it  all. 
He  could  have  laughed,  but  for  Creswell's  eyes.  He 
crossed  the  room  to  this  preposterous  partner  of  his 
and  laid  a  hand  on  either  of  his  shoulders. 

"Bob,"  he  said,  "as  well  as  being  the  soundest  man 
I  ever  knew,  you're  an  old  fool,  No,  I  haven't  for- 
gotten. 'The  place'  is  all  right,  but  you  haven't  looked 
after  Joyce  as  I  meant  you  to.  Don't  you  think  you'd 
better  be  getting  on  with  it?" 

A  cloud  of  red  dust  marked  the  passage  of  Soames's 
car  toward  Brisbane.  Creswell  turned  back  into  the 
humpy,  paused  for  a  while  in  deep  thought,  then  pro- 
ceeded with  the  utmost  deliberation  to  bathe,  shave, 
and  dress.  This  done,  he  passed  down  the  bush  track 
to  Nambye,  and  found  Joyce  alone,  in  a  hammock  on 
the  veranda. 


" — How  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES" 

riS  a  disconcerting  thing,  when  dressing  for  dinner, 
;o  find  that  someone  has  been  watching  you  through 
the  entire  process.     Mr.  Mumpus  jerked  the  absurd 
little  curtain  over  as  much  of  the  open  porthole  as  it 
would  cover,  and  fell  to  doing  the  same  thing  with  his 
hair. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  and  although  he  would  not  have 
had  it  known  for  worlds,  Mr.  Mumpus  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  dressing  for  dinner  at  all.  He  was  a  hack  ac- 
countant, if  you  know  what  that  means,  and  when  his 
day's  work  of  mental  acrobatics  was  done,  he  was  only 
too  pleased  to  climb  into  a  moth-eaten  dressing  gown 
and  abandon  himself  to  the  production  of  uncertain 
noises  on  the  clarionet,  this  being  his  only  means  of 
expressing  what  was  in  him  apart  from  a  mind  like  a 
ready-reckoner. 

But  on  the  S.  S.  Wykeba  it  was  a  different  matter. 
He  was  on  holiday,  the  first  clean  breakaway  in  his 
routine-sodden  life.  He  had  fallen  for  the  cunningly 
devised  announcements  of  the  Phipps  Gilroy  Naviga- 
tion Co.  anent  Island  travel.  He  was  "revelling  in  the 
romance  of  'the  Islands  of  the  Blest';  witnessing  the 
strange  customs  of  a  picturesque  people;  casting  off  for 
thirty  days  (and  incidentally  thirty  pounds)  the  shack- 
les of  present-day  civilization,  and  harking  back  to  un- 

230 


"—HOW  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES"    231 

trammelled  Nature.'*  Or  so  the  announcements  read, 
and  who  was  he  to  argue  the  point?  Had  not  the 
Wykeba  touched  at  three  separate  South  Sea  Islands  for 
not  less  than  twelve  hours  apiece?  Had  he  not  wit- 
nessed a  hula  or  a  meke  or  whatever  they  called  it,  nau- 
seated himself  in  an  effort  to  drink  kava,  and  bought  a 
war  club  (manufactured  in  Sydney),  and  a  rush  basket 
of  coral  fronds  that  he  had 
no  notion  what  to  do  with 
when  he  had  it? 

And  now  the  Wykeba 
was  alongside  Mahiti  wharf.  - 
Mr.  Mumpus  had  looked  it  ~. 
all  up.  Mahiti  was  a  French 
protectorate  with  twelve  thousand  inhabitants.  Its 
chief  exports  were  copra,  pearl  shell,  and  vanilla,  and  he 
was  there  for  twelve  mortal  hours.  What  was  to  be 
done?  According  to  schedule,  and  the  dictates  of  an 
intensely  methodical  mind,  he  should  go  ashore  and 
"revel,  etc.,"  but  for  the  first  time  on  this  epoch-making 
tour  his  spirit  rebelled.  He  refused  to  do  any  one  of 
those  things  that  Messrs.  Phipps  Gilroy  had  mapped 
out  for  him.  Instead,  he  would  take  his  clarionet  into 
the  music  room  and  get  the  rather  dull  little  person  in 
apparently  eternal  mauve  "semi-evening"  to  play  his 
accompaniments.  She  would  do  it.  She  seemed  of  the 
type  that  will  do  anything  for  anybody,  and  conse- 
quently receives  little  or  no  attention  herself. 

With  this  object  in  view,  Mr.  Mumpus  pieced  to- 
gether his  beloved  instrument  and  tested  the  reed  by 
playing  the  opening  movement  of  a  cavatina.  During 


232  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

the  pause  that  followed,  a  faint  clapping  of  hands  and 
a  whispered  "encore"  came  from  behind  the  port- 
hole curtain,  and  with  a  cluck  of  annoyance  he  drew  it 
aside. 

"Go  away,"  he  ordered  severely.  "D'you  hear? 
Go "  and  there  he  stopped. 

There  was  something  in  the  little  picture  he  had  dis- 
closed that  gave  him  pause.  It  was  beautiful,  far  too 
beautiful  to  dispel  peremptorily.  The  porthole  was 
level  with  the  wharf,  and  as  though  in  a  dull  gold  frame 
an  elfin  figure  reclined,  its  soft  brown  eyes  fastened  on 
Mr.  Mumpus  in  a  child-like  stare  of  wonderment;  while 
from  out  the  background  of  velvet  darkness  came  a 
medley  of  tropic  scent  and  sound — frangipane,  copra, 
and  sandalwood,  the  ceaseless  chatter  of  crickets,  the 
patter  of  naked  feet,  snatches  of  song. 

"What  you  want?"  demanded  Mr.  Mumpus  with  a 
valiant  effort  at  beche-de  mer. 

The  elf  nodded  at  the  instrument  in  his  hand. 

"Me  like  'im,"  it  solemnly  averred. 

"You  do,  eh?"  A  whim  seized  Mr.  Mumpus.  He 
knelt  on  the  settee,  and  trilled  a  stanza  from  the 
"Mikado."  "How's  that?" 

The  elf  wriggled  its  approval.  Mr.  Mumpus  ex- 
perienced the  acute  satisfaction  of  holding  an  audience 
in  his  hand. 

"Ze  'Marseillaise' ! "  it  ordered,  beating  its  small 
brown  fists  on  the  planking  of  the  wharf.  "Ze  'Marseil- 
laise'! 'E  is  ze  day  of  France!" 

And  Mr.  Mumpus  found  himself  obliging  with  the 
utmost  zest. 


"—HOW  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES"     233 

"Papa  belong  me  'im  Frenchman,"  explained  the  elf 
with  a  touch  of  pride  when  it  was  done. 

"Indeed?"  murmured  Mr.  Mumpus.  "And  your 
mother?" 

"Mama  belong  me  Mahitienne.     Them  finish." 

"Finish?" 

"Mais  oui,  pouf !  like  zat." 

"Indeed,"  repeated  Mr.  Mumpus  sympathetically 
and  for  lack  of  something  better  to  say.  He  still  knelt 
on  the  settee,  and  contemplated  at  a  range  of  perhaps 
twelve  inches  this  diverting  work  of  nature.  It  was 
apparently  perfect.  The  hair  was  blue-black  and  of 
amazing  length  and  richness,  the  teeth  white  and 
even,  the  skin  a  dull  gold,  the  eyes — there  was  some- 
thing in  the  eyes  that  vaguely  disturbed  Mr.  Mumpus. 
They  were  essentially  not  of  his  world,  but  of  another, 
mysterious,  alluring,  out  there  through  the  porthole. 
They  caused  him  temporarily  to  overlook  the  fact  that 
he  was  a  hack  accountant,  much  less  an  exemplary 
tourist  already  late  for  an  exemplary  dinner  of  frozen 
meats  and  tinned  asparagus.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  Mr.  Mumpus  obeyed  impulse  without  question. 
Mechanically  slipping  a  section  of  clarionet  into  either 
pocket  of  his  "ready  to  wear"  dinner  jacket,  he  insinu- 
ated his  meagre  person  through  the  porthole,  and 
stood  looking  down  on  the  elf. 

"Now!"  he  cried  with  challenging  abandon. 

She  took  him  to  a  shop  across  the  way,  and  pointed 
out  a  perfectly  preposterous  mask  of  bucolic  cheeks  and 
elongated  nose. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said  judicially,  and  Mr.  Mumpus 


234  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

bought  it.  What  was  more,  he  put  it  on,  to  the  intense 
delight  of  his  companion,  and  they  set  off  into  the  town, 
as  strangely  assorted  a  pair  as  ever  Mahitian  moon  has 
smiled  upon. 

Unquestionably  it  was  the  day  of  France.  A  band 
played  somewhere.  The  flamboyant-bordered  streets 
seethed  with  heterogeneous  humanity — stolid  Anglo- 
Saxons,  vivacious  Latins,  Chinamen,  Kanakas,  and  a 
blending  of  each  too  subtle  for  analysis.  Carnival  was 
in  the  air.  No  one  cared,  least  of  all  Mr.  Mumpus. 
No  one  knew  him.  He  did  not  know  himself.  A  solid 
handful  of  confetti  caught  him  in  the  nape  of  the  neck, 
and  slowly  worked  its  passage  down  his  spine.  A  paper 
tongue,  full  three  feet  long,  shot  from  out  the  laughing 
face  of  a  passer-by  and  smote  him  on  his  false  nose. 
This  was  too  much.  He  bought  a  bag  full  of  miniature 
bombs  that  exploded  on  impact,  and  used  them  with 
telling  effect. 

At  a  crowded  cafe  he  ordered  vin  rouge  and  an  omelette 
with  the  air  of  an  habitue,  and  derived  infinite  satisfac- 
tion from  watching  a  sprinkling  of  his  fellow  passengers 
looking  bored  and  a  trifle  foolish  in  their  bizarre  sur- 
roundings. There  was  the  ponderous  lady  in  blue  who 
at  one  time  had  no  doubt  possessed  a  voice,  and  her  lap 
husband;  also  the  young  couple  that  had  such  an  an- 
noying habit  of  getting  under  foot  on  the  boat  deck 
of  an  evening;  the  Yankee  inventor  of  an  entirely  new 
abortion  in  safety  razors,  and  a  successful  composer  who 
rendered  life  in  the  music-room  unendurable  with  lus- 
cious ballads.  They  were  all  so  obviously  what  they 
were,  whereas  he,  Mr.  Mumpus,  behind  his  impenetra- 


"—HOW  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES"    235 

ble  incognito  of  vermilion  pasteboard,  might  be  any- 
thing— anything!  Was  he  not  sitting  cheek  by  jowl 
with  such  romantic  figures  as  schooner  skippers,  shellers, 
planters,  adventurers?  Their  very  conversation,  heard 
in  snatches  and  in  conjunction  with  a  second  glass  of 
vin  rouge,  held  a  mystery  all  its  own — 

".  •  .  too  deep  for  skin  diving  .  .  .  yes, 
and  sharks  .  .  .  hear  they've  got  compressors,  up 
in  the  Straits  .  .  „  forty-two  fathoms,  what  d'you 
say  to  that?" 

Or- 

"We  could  get  a  court  in  behind  the  old  vanilla." 

"Wouldn't  be  enough  run-back." 

"Chop  down  vanilla.  Must  have  a  court  .  .  . 
put  the  boys  onto  it  on  Monday  .  .  .  play  you  for 
that  Passing  Show  record  on  Wednesday." 

"That's  a  go." 

"Here's  how!" 

"Cheer-o." 

Or— 

"Who's  the  gink  in  the  proboscis?" 

"Search  me,  but  the  kid's  got  him,  anyway." 

"May  be  one  of  them." 

"Don't  think  so;  Pete's  watching  'em  like  a  cat." 

"But  I  thought  Pete.     .     .     ." 

"Out  a  week  ago  .  .  .  kid  can't  shake  him  off 
.  .  .  too  bad,  but  there  you  are.  .  .  ." 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  the  elf  seized  Mr.  Mum- 
pus  by  the  hand  and  literally  dragged  him  into  the 
street. 

"Too  much  *ot,"  she  contrived  to  explain  as  they 


236  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

wormed  a  passage  through  the  throng,  yet  it  occurred 
to  Mr.  Mumpus  that  her  hand  was  cold,  deathly  cold. 
"Ah  Wong  all  right,"  she  added,  and  steered  him  into  a 
fetid  haunt  of  fan  tan  and  "dope"  where  they  found 
a  vacant  corner  of  a  battered  settee. 

Exactly  why  they  had  come  there,  Mr.  Mumpus 
never  discovered,  for  it  seemed  that  he  had  no  sooner 
taken  in  his  surroundings  of  smoke,  a  Chinese  banker 
by  murky  lamplight,  wrangling  humanity  and  the 
staccato  click  of  counters,  and  was  fairly  launched  on 
coffee,  liqueur,  and  a  freckled  cigarette,  than  he  was  for 
some  obscure  reason  wafted  out  of  the  place  and  across 
the  street  to  the  Palais  de  Dance. 

The  transition  was  a  trifle  sudden,  but  then  so  was  the 
elf,  and  somehow  it  seemed  to  fit  in  with  the  generally 
kaleidoscopic  nature  of  the  evening's  happenings.  He 
could  not  play  fan  tan,  neither  could  he  dance,  yet  he 
found  his  arms  encircling  the  elf,  and  his  feet  moving 
more  or  less  rhythmically  to  the  strains  of  a  two-piece 
orchestra.  In  fact,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  doing 
rather  well.  This,  then,  was  dancing.  He  had  no 
idea  it  was  so  simple — merely  a  matter  of  one  two,  and 
one  two,  so  that  it  came  as  all  the  more  of  a  shock 
when  he  found  himself  on  a  moonlit  beach.  They  had 
evidently  danced  clean  through  the  Palais,  and  out 
of  the  open  door  at  the  far  end.  The  elf  was  rearrang- 
ing his  "made-up"  tie  that  had  an  uncanny  knack  of 
standing  on  end.  He  looked  into  her  upturned  face, 
and  fancied  that  he  saw  fear  in  her  eyes. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  make  sure  of  anything  in 
this  fantasia  that  had  caught  him  up  like  a  whirlwind. 


"—HOW  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES"    237 

They  were  off  again,  hand  in  hand  along  the  hard  wet 
sand,  skirting  the  festoons  of  silver  ripples,  and  sending 
the  hermit  crabs  scuttling  and  crackling  to  their  bur- 
rows. There  was  no  sense  to  it  all,  no  sense  whatever, 
he  reflected,  and  thanking  Providence  on  that  account, 
joined  his  raucous  barytone  to  the  elf's  clear  contralto 
as  she  chanted  a  meke  to  the  moon. 

At  a  place  where  coral  mushrooms  reared  fantastic 
shapes  out  of  the  still  waters  of  the  lagoon,  they  cried  a 
halt  and,  sitting  side  by  side  in  the  sand,  Mr.  Mumpus 
"by  request"  boomed  the  fine,  round  notes  of  his  clari- 
onet into  the  night,  while  the  elf  listened  enthralled. 
She  had  never  met  such  a  man.  Indeed,  it  was  ex- 
tremely doubtful  if  she  would  ever  meet  such  another. 

To  Mr.  Mumpus  it  seemed  that  he  had  never  pro- 
duced such  exquisite  sound.  "Damon,"  "O  Santis- 
sima, "  Raff's  "Cavatina,"  floated  in  turn  over  the 
lagoon,  and  were  lost  in  the  distant  thunder  of  surf  on 
the  barrier  reef.  He  was  as  lost  to  the  world  as  the 
great  beyond. 

He  did  not  even  notice  when  the  elf  left  his  side,  and 
went  to  meet  the  slinking  shadow  of  a  man  that  ap- 
proached them  along  the  edge  of  the  beach. 

She  stood  before  him  when  they  met,  her  two  hands  at 
her  breast,  as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

"Well?"  he  said  in  French. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Well?"  he  repeated  and,  taking  her  two  shoulders 
in  his  powerful  hands,  crushed  them  as  in  a  vise. 

"He  is  so  small,"  pleaded  the  elf,  her  face  twisted 
with  pain,  "and — and  he  has  nothing — nothing — ah!" 


238  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Then  why.     .     .     ." 

"I  do  not  know,"  wailed  the  elf.     "Pete,  mon  Dieu, 
stop!    I  do  not  know,  unless — unless  it  was  that."    A 
note  hung  on  the  still  air,  a  reed-like  note  that  swelled 
and  faded,  and  died. 

The  man  turned  his  head  in  the  direction  of  a  grotes- 
que figure  squatting  on  the  sand  in  the  moonlight. 
Its  profile  was  one  of  bloated  cheeks  and  absurdly  mis- 
shapen nose,  and  it  swayed  in  rhythmic  ecstasy. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Mumpus  was  in  the  throes  of 
his  favourite  serenade,  and  nothing  short  of  an  earth- 
quake would  have  disturbed  him. 

"Is  he  mad,  or  drunk,  or  both?"  demanded  the  man. 

"I  do  not  know,"  repeated  the  elf  dully,  "but  he  is  so 
small,  so  helpless — Pete!" 

He  flung  her  aside  and  took  two  strides  toward  the 
squatting  figure,  but  only  two.  The  elf's  hand  shot  out 
and  caught  him  by  the  ankle,  spilling  him  to  the  ground, 
and  a  wild-cat,  not  an  elf,  was  on  his  shoulders,  raining 
blow  after  blow  with  a  coral  rock  upon  his  head. 

He  did  not  move.  The  elf  stood  back  panting,  and 
viewed  her  handiwork.  Still  he  did  not  move.  Then 
she  turned  and  ran,  blindly,  madly  along  the  beach,  a 
flitting  figure  in  the  moonlight  that  dwindled,  and  faded, 
and  was  lost  amongst  the  palm  groves. 

And  Mr.  Mumpus  finished  his  favourite  serenade, 
and  looked  about  him.  The  elf  was  gone.  The  spell 
was  broken  .  .  .  perhaps  it  was  as  well.  He  con- 
sulted his  watch,  the  first  sign  of  rational  thought,  and 
clucked  in  horror  at  the  hour.  It  was  nearly  four  .  .  . 
and  the  Wykeba  sailed  at  dawn  .  .  .  and  there 


"—HOW  THE  OTHER  HALF  LIVES"     239 

was  a  hint  of  pallor  on  the  horizon!  He  scrambled  to 
his  feet  and  hurried  along  the  beach,  passing  within  a 
few  yards  of  an  oblong  shadow  on  the  sand,  until  the 
dark  bulk  of  the  Wykeba  loomed  ahead. 

But  it  was  not  until  he  emerged  into  the  searching 
rays  of  the  bunch-light  at  the  head  of  the  gangway, 
and  the  deck  hand  had  at  first  stared,  then  grinned, 
that  he  remembered  his  incognito  and  snatched  it  from 
his  face.  He  hung  it  on  the  same  hook  as  the  rush 
basket  of  coral  fronds,  lay  smiling  through  the  port- 
hole for  a  space,  and  slept. 


THE  MASCOT 

HE  SAT  in  the  sand,  staring  over  his  knees  at  a 
tiny  island  that  danced  in  the  shimmering  heat 
haze.  He  was  not  beautiful,  but  then  few  mas- 
cots are.  His  weak  eyes  were  so  puckered  against  the 
glare  as  to  be  almost  invisible;  he  was  over-fat  for  his 
years,  which  could  not  have  been  more  than  thirty, 
and  there  was  a  vacuousness  in  his  fixed  gaze  and 
drooping  jaw  that  was  not  healthy.  He  was  trying 
to  think. 

Now,  a  mascot  has  no  business  to  think;  it  is  not 
expected  of  him.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  sit  back  and 
look  wise,  and  accept  what  comes  his  way  with  be- 
coming dignity.  That  is  why  the  career  so  exactly 
suited  James  Eustace  Talbot. 

It  is  not  a  joke.  It  is  a  serions  business.  Just  as  a 
warship  has  its  bulldog,  a  regiment  its  goat,  or  an 
eminently  respectable  family  its  black  cat,  so  a  South 
Sea  tribe  has  its  white  man,  when  it  can  get  him.  If 
he  is  of  the  right  variety,  he  gives  little  trouble.  His 
wants  are  few — a  grass  house,  sufficient  to  eat  and  drink, 
and  an  unlimited  space  of  time  in  which  to  do  nothing. 
His  habits  are  gentle,  and  he  is,  as  a  rule,  easily  domesti- 
cated. Then  there  is  always  the  mysterious  element  of 
good  fortune  attaching  to  him. 

It  is  as  pleasant  to  render  one's  neighbours  envious  in 

240 


THE  MASCOT  241 

the  South  Pacific  as  elsewhere.  For  instance,  if  a  hur- 
ricane misses  your  particular  district  by  half  a  mile,  you 
will  say  with  an  air  of  quiet  superiority:  "We  have  a 
white  man,"  which  will  at  once  explain  the  phenomenon 
and  sow  the  necessary  seeds  of  covetousness  in  the 
breasts  of  your  hearers.  If,  upon  the  other  hand,  the 
hurricane  happens  to  blow  your  possession  into  the  sea, 
you  will  say:  "We  have  a  white  man,  otherwise  we 
should  undoubtedly  have  been  blown  into  the  sea  also." 
And  if  you  are  blown  into  the  sea — well,  that  ends 
the  matter,  anyway.  A  mascot  is  a  useful  thing  to 
have  about  the  place. 

And,  as  has  been  said,  it  suited  Talbot.  Out  of  a 
ruthless  world  he  had  come — a  world  with  which  he  was 
utterly  unsuited  to  do  battle.  The  younger  son  of  a 
younger  son,  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  hounds 
and  lawn  tennis,  he  had  one  day  awakened  to  the 
distressing  fact  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to 
work  for  a  living.  He  had  noticed  that  some  people 
did  it,  and  it  looked  easy,  if  uninteresting.  For  the 
most  part  it  appeared  to  consist  in  departing  by  a 
certain  train  to  the  City,  writing  a  few  letters  at  a  roll- 
top  desk  or  dictating  to  a  stenographer,  and  returning 
by  a  certain  other  train,  whereby,  and  in  time,  one  ac- 
cumulated sufficient  pelf  to  discontinue  the  process. 

Talbot  did  it.  He  did  it  for  over  a  month,  and  at  the 
end  of  that  time  made  his  second  illuminating  discovery 
« — namely  that,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  thing 
was  impossible.  There  was  not  that  in  his  head  which 
can  be  bartered  for  sufficient  food,  clothes,  and  lodging. 

What  of  his  hands?     About  this  time  he  was  fond 


242  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

of  saying:  "It's  no  use.  I  wasn't  built  for  an  office. 
I'd  sooner  go  out  with  a  pick  and  shovel."  And  he 
continued  to  say  it  until  some  unfeeling  person  made  the 
inevitable  rejoinder:  "Then  why  not  go  out  with  a  pick 
and  shovel?" 

Talbot  did  it.  He  went  to  Canada  and  did  it  for 
nearly  two  months — "it"  consisting  of  digging  post- 
holes  two  feet  deep  by  a  foot  square  from  sunrise  to  sun- 
set, at  five  cents  a  hole.  As  the  field  he  was  helping  to 
construct  was  to  be  ten  miles  in  circumference,  and  the 
post-holes  were  four  yards  apart,  and  his  record  was 
twenty  in  the  day,  his  mind,  when  not  disturbed  by 
bruised  hands  or  mosquito  bites,  was  occupied  with  the 
mathematical  problem  of  how  long  it  would  take  to 
finish  the  field,  and  what  he  would  have  earned  by  the 
time  it  was  finished. 

He  never  reached  a  solution,  because  by  the  end  of  the 
second  month  he  was  convinced  that  one  more  day  of 
post-hole  digging  would  result  in  his  mental  collapse. 

"Manual  labour,"  he  told  himself  at  this  time,  "is 
not  for  those  of  active  mind.  For  them  it  is  nothing 

short  of  torture.  I  would  sooner "  And  there  his 

soliloquy  faded  into  silence  because  when  both  head  and 
hand  fail  there  is  not  much  left  for  a  man. 

Under  the  circumstances  some  would  have  taken  to 
drink,  or  married  for  money,  or  even  worse,  and  it  is  all 
to  Talbot's  credit  that  he  did  none  of  these  things. 
Instead,  he  ricocheted  over  the  world  like  a  bagatelle- 
ball  in  search  of  its  abiding-place,  and  finding  it  on  the 
island  of  Kau,  in  the  South  Pacific  Ocean,  promptly 
sank  to  rest  with  a  "click"  of  unutterable  relief. 


THE  MASCOT  243 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  mascot.  All  he  knew, 
or  cared  to  know,  was  that,  after  long  and  painful  ex- 
perience, he  had  discovered  an  Elysium  where  it  was 
possible  to  live  without  money  and  without  toil,  where 
his  mere  presence  gave  pleasure  to  others  and  harmed 
no  one — except  himself.  This  last  in  parenthesis,  for 
Talbot's  mental  and  physical  decline  had  been  so  grad- 
ual that  he  was  unaware  of  it.  He  had  grown  a  beard, 
but  then  many  do  in  the  tropics;  it  saves  trouble.  He 
was  fatter  than  when  he  came  to  Kau,  which  only 
showed  that  the  place  agreed  with  him.  His  heart 
appeared  to  indulge  in  acrobatics  on  occasion,  but  whose 
does  not?  As  for  memory  and  powers  of  concentration, 
he  never  pretended  to  have  either,  so  they  were  no 
loss.  And  his  eyes  and  knees?  Well,  that  was  kava. 
He  frankly  admitted  it,  and  quite  often  after  an  ap- 
parently inanimate  object  had  performed  some  im- 
possible evolution  for  his  benefit,  or  he  stumbled  over 
something  which  on  investigation  was  found  not  to 
exist,  he  told  himself  that  he  must  "let  up  on  the  kava 
a  bit." 

No,  he  had  been  in  the  Islands  a  year — or  was  it  two? 
— and,  on  the  whole,  he  had  nothing  to  reproach  himself 
with.  Who  can  say  more? 

And  now  he  was  on  the  verge  of  spoiling  it  all  by  try- 
ing to  think.  And  it  was  an  island,  this  toy  island  danc- 
ing in  the  heat  haze,  that  was  responsible.  It  was  called 
Onioti;  Talbot  knew  that.  Also  it  was  tabu,  but  in  a 
land  where  for  no  apparent  reason  every  other  rock, 
glade,  and  sand  spit  is  "sacred,"  the  circumstance  had 
not  interested  him.  All  that  troubled  Talbot  was  that 


244  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

in  the  vicinity  of  that  island  he  had  either  heard  some- 
thing that  was  physically  incapable  of  emanating  from 
such  a  spot,  or  his  hearing,  as  well  as  his  sight,  was  be- 
ginning to  play  him  false. 

Either  contingency  was  sufficiently  alarming  to  set 
the  rusty  mechanism  of  his  mind  in  motion.  He  re- 
membered being  paddled  out  to  sea  by  his  faithful  at- 
tendant for  the  purpose  of  fishing,  and  he  remembered 
that,  while  the  canoe  lay  rising  and  falling  on  a  gentle 
swell,  he  had  heard  a  voice,  a  high-pitched,  unlovely 
voice,  singing  something  that  at  the  time  struck  him 
as  unusual,  and  had  rung  in  his  head  with  maddening 
persistence  ever  since.  It  was  one  of  those  great,  sim- 
ple airs  that  live,  that  bring  back  memories  crowding, 
crowding — of  cool  rains,  and  lights  reflected  in  wet 
pavements;  of  theatre  porticos  and  hurrying  crowds;  of 
— of  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  opera;  of — of  "The  Yeomen  of 
the  Guard";  that  was  it — a  chorus  from  "The  Yeomen 
of  the  Guard ! "  Talbot  wriggled  in  the  sand  with  sheer 
pleasure  at  having  recalled  it.  Who  could  say  he  had  no 
memory?  And  who  could  explain  such  a  song  pro- 
ceeding from  Onioti? 

Talbot  struggled  to  his  feet  without  the  customary 
helping  hand  of  his  attendant,  and  shambled  along  the 
sun-drenched  beach.  Joni  saw  him  from  afar,  and  came 
running  in  alarm  with  the  huge  green-lined  umbrella 
specially  imported  for  the  mascot's  benefit. 

"I  will  go  fishing,"  said  Talbot. 

Joni  launched  the  canoe  in  silence.  There  was  no 
accounting  for  the  whims  of  mascots,  and  they  must  be 
humoured.  If  it  were  not  for  the  kudos  attaching  to 


THE  MASCOT  245 

the  post  of  attendant,  he  could  have  often  wished  that 
he  were  of  the  common  people. 

"We  will  go  where  we  went  yesterday,"  he  was 
instructed  now,  and  scarcely  were  the  lines  overboard 
in  the  lee  of  Onioti  than  his  charge  burst  into  song.  The 
mascot's  voice  was  not  beautiful — it  sounded  harsh 
and  discordant  to  Joni — but  it  pleased  the  singer, 
which  was  the  main  point. 

Suddenly  it  ceased,  and  the  sun-bathed  silence  closed 
down.  Then,  as  though  a  reluctant  echo  had  been 
awakened  on  the  palm-fringed  island,  an  answer  came 
faint  but  clear  over  the  water. 

Joni  dipped  his  paddle,  and  the  canoe  moved  slowly 
seaward. 

"Joni!"  It  was  the  mascot,  leaning  forward,  tense 
of  face,  trembling  like  a  croton  in  the  wind.  "Joni,  I 
want  to  land  on  Onioti." 

"Onioti  tabu,"  muttered  Joni,  and  bent  to  the  pad- 
dle. 

"Joni,  what  you  take  to  land  me  on  Onioti?"  The 
mascot's  voice  had  risen  in  a  querulous  crescendo.  "I 
give  you  plenty  'bacco,  a  knife — wisiki ! " 

Never  for  a  moment  did  the  rhythmical  plash  of  the 
paddle  falter. 

"Joni- 

The  attendant  had  more  than  half  expected  it.  The 
mascot  was  upon  him,  a  large,  soft,  ineffectual  man, 
whom  he  forced  gently  back  on  to  his  pile  of  mats  in  the 
bottom  of  the  canoe  like  a  refractory  infant. 

"Onioti  tabu,"  he  repeated  soothingly,  and  resumed 
his  paddling.  All  was  well.  One  must  expect  these 


246  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

sudden  outbursts  of  passion.  The  mascot  would  have 
forgotten  all  about  it  by  the  morrow. 

But  there  Joni  was  wrong. 

During  the  bout  of  fever  that  inevitably  followed  the 
undue  excitement  in  the  canoe,  Onioti  danced  before 
Talbot's  eyes  to  the  accompaniment  of  "The  Yeomen 
of  the  Guard"  chorus,  and  it  was  a  changed  mascot 
that  ultimately  rose  from  its  mat-strewn  bed  and  tot- 
tered into  the  sunshine. 

Naked,  pot-bellied  children  tugged  at  his  sulu  "for 
luck,"  as  they  had  been  taught,  and  the  elders  as- 
sembled in  their  doorways  to  congratulate  him  on  his 
recovery;  but  he  made  no  response.  He  was  still  think- 
ing. 

The  Turaga  (Prince)  of  Kau,  who  suffered  from  over- 
education  at  a  distant  seat  of  learning,  found  his  mascot 
dull. 

"Fever  is  the  deuce,  old  chap,"  he  observed,  tugging 
a  horny  foot  to  his  groin. 

"It  is,"  said  Talbot. 

"It  takes  it  out  of  a  fellow — what?" 

"It  does,"  Talbot  admitted. 

"And  as  for  quinine,"  continued  the  Turaga  conver- 
sationally, "it  causes  tunes  to  play  in  the  head." 

This  also  was  the  truth,  as  Talbot  knew. 

"Why  is  Onioti  tabu?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

The  Turaga's  lethargic  gaze  turned  in  Talbot's  direc- 
tion with  unexpected  swiftness,  then  ascended  to  the 
sinnet-bound  rafters  of  the  palace  roof. 

"Why  is  anywhere  tabu?"  he  suggested  mildly. 

"That's  what  I  was  wondering,"  said  Talbot. 


THE  MASCOT  247 

The  Turaga  smiled  indulgently.  There  was  no  ac- 
counting for  a  mascot's  wonderings. 

"Well,"  he  explained  patiently,  "we  have  some  queer 
beliefs,  'relics  of  barbarism'  they  called  them  at  college, 
but  they — they  survive;  that  is  the  word." 

"I  see,"  said  Talbot. 

"They  survive,"  repeated  the  Turaga,  moistening  his 
lips  as  though  over  a  choice  morsel,  "and  one  of  them  is 
that  spirits  sometimes  come  back  to  see  that  all  is  well 
with  the  place  where  their  bodies  lie.  We  like  to  leave 
them  to  it,  so  we  make  the  place  tabu.  Quaint,  is  it 
not,  old  chap?" 

"Very,"  said  Talbot.  "Then  there  is  someone 
buried  on  Onioti?" 

The  Turaga's  gaze  left  the  palace  rafters  and  fell  on 
Talbot. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "there  is,  as  you  say,  someone  buried 
on  Onioti.  Also,"  he  added  irrelevantly,  "there  is  a 
council  to-night." 

"I  will  be  there,"  said  Talbot  magnificently,  but 
rather  marred  his  exit  by  stumbling  over  nothing  what- 
ever in  the  doorway. 

The  Turaga  of  Kau  grinned  and  wagged  his  head. 
Oh,  but  they  were  amusing,  these  mascots ! 

The  council  dragged  out  its  weary  length.  Talbot 
sat  next  to  the  Turaga,  as  was  the  custom,  and  mechani- 
cally sampled  each  cocoanut  shell  of  kava  as  it  was 
dipped  from  the  carved  tanoa  bowl.  This  was  neces- 
sary, because  it  was  the  time  for  planting  taro,  and  all 
men  know  that,  unless  the  ceremony  is  faithfully  car- 
ried out,  the  crop  will  be  a  failure. 


248  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Then  they  talked.  Lord,  how  they  talked!  And 
Talbot  usually  slept.  Propped  against  one  of  the  sup- 
porting posts,  he  slept  the  sleep  of  kava  and  inanition, 
while  men  expounded  with  a  wealth  of  picturesque 
detail  what  really  remarkable  fellows  they  were,  and 
their  ancestors  before  them;  while  girls  danced  the 
history  of  Kau  from  the  dark  ages  to  the  present  day  of 
enlightenment;  while  they  ate  pig  roasted  whole  in 
banana  leaves  and  unbelievable  quantities  of  turtle. 

But  for  some  reason  he  did  not  sleep  on  this  occasion. 
He  sat  looking  on  and  thinking,  and,  when  it  was  over, 
lay  on  his  mat-strewn  bed,  staring  wide-eyed  but  un- 
seeing at  a  chink  in  the  reed  wall,  through  which  a  soli- 
tary and  monstrous  star  winked  invitingly. 

The  attendant,  prone  across  the  doorway,  slept  the 
sleep  of  repletion,  together  with  the  rest  of  Kau,  and 
knew  nothing  of  what  passed.  If  he  had  seen,  it  is 
doubtful  if  he  would  have  believed,  for  he  was  ignor- 
ant of  the  amazing,  if  temporary,  effects  on  mascots  of 
large  quantities  of  neat  spirit. 

Talbot  made  three  successful  journeys  through  the 
enlarged  chink  in  the  reed  wall,  and  finally  launched  the 
canoe  on  a  sea  of  inky  shadows.  There  was  a  faint  off- 
shore breeze,  so  he  hoisted  the  lugsail  and  sailed  for 
Onioti,  a  fairy  islet  of  quivering  palm  fronds  in  the  star- 
light. 

The  canoe's  prow  kissed  the  sand,  and  Talbot  scram- 
bled almost  nimbly  ashore.  He  was  feeling  extraor- 
dinarily buoyant.  If  only  it  would  last!  He  patted 
the  pocket  of  his  disreputable  duck  jacket  to  make  sure 
the  elixir  was  still  there,  and  with  renewed  confidence 


THE  MASCOT  249 

followed  a  narrow  but  well-defined  track  leading  from 
the  beach  through  a  tangle  of  tropical  vegetation  to  the 
door  of  a  native  hut.  An  old  man  lav  sleeping  peace- 
fully on  his  bamboo  pillow  across  the  threshold,  a  very 
old  man  by  the  ease  with  which  Talbot  rendered  him  in- 
nocuous. Then  he  went  inside  and  struck  a  match. 

By  its  flickering  light  he  saw  enough  to  make  him 
thankful  when  it  went  out.  Extraordinary  noises  were 
proceeding  from  a  pile  of  mats  in  a  far  corner. 

"Speak  English,"  snapped  Talbot.  "I  heard  you 
singing  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  yesterday,  so  you  can't 
kid  me." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  issued  out  of  the  darkness 
with  startling  clarity. 

"That's  better,"  said  Talbot. 

"Where's  Tomati?"  wailed  the  voice. 

"Tomati  is  sleeping  rather  more  soundly  than  usual," 
said  Talbot. 

"You've  killed  him?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"You,"  said  Talbot.     "Help  yourself." 

The  elixir  passed  into  the  darkness  and  did  not  return. 
Talbot  involuntarily  wiped  the  back  of  his  hand  on  his 
sulu.  Something  had  touched  it — something  that 
should  have  felt  like  another  hand. 

"What  are  you  doing  on  Kau?"  inquired  the  un- 
known, after  a  liquid  pause. 

"Nothing,"  said  Talbot. 

"You  mean " 

"Just  that." 


250  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

There  followed  a  cackle  of  laughter. 

"This  is  really  quite  amusing,"  chuckled  the  un- 
known; "the  present — er — incumbent  of  Kau  compares 
notes  with  his  predecessor.  Ha,  ha!" 

"Don't  laugh,"  snapped  Talbot.  "If  you  laugh, 
I'll— I'll  finish  the  business." 

"So  that's  the  way  it's  taken  you?" 

"Yes;  I've  been  thinking." 

"You  shouldn't." 

"I  know,  but  I  have  and "  Talbot  broke  off  and 

shuddered. 

"Great  mistake,"  continued  the  unknown,  who 
showed  signs  of  becoming  garrulous.  "All  right  if  you 
don't  think.  They  look  after  you.  But  you  should 
have  been  with  the  old  man.  Never  saw  much  of  the 
Turaga — struck  me  as  insipid.  Those  were  the  days! 
Long-pig  in  my  day,  long-pig " 

"Can  you  walk?"  said  Talbot. 

"No.     Why?" 

"I  was  wondering  how  to  get  you  down  to  the  canoe." 

"  Canoe?     What  d'you  mean?  " 

"I  mean  we're  going  to  get  out  of  here." 

"I  don't  want  to  go." 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Talbot. 

"What's  the  use?  You  haven't  seen  me  by  daylight. 
Besides — — " 

"I  can't  help  that,  either.  I'm  not  going  to  leave 
you  here." 

A  noise  proceeded  from  the  corner — a  noise  that  in 
some  respects  resembled  weeping. 

"  It'll  kill  me !     It's  madness !     I  tell  you  it'll  kill  me." 


THE  MASCOT  251 

"That's  another  thing  I  can't  help,"  said  Talbot, 
between  clenched  teeth,  and,  grasping  the  topmost  mat, 
pulled  with  all  his  strength. 

It  was  surprising  how  easily  it  followed  him  over  the 
floor,  down  the  bush  track  and  on  to  the  beach.  But 
there  was  not  much  on  it.  What  there  was  he  contrived 
to  bundle  into  the  canoe,  and  with  the  dawn  Kau  was 
a  blue  smudge  on  the  eastern  horizon. 

An  outrigger  is  hard  to  beat  "full-and-by,"  and  the 
wind  held  as  only  a  "trade"  knows  how.  For  a  day  and 
a  night  and  part  of  yet  another  day  Talbot  sat  at  the 
steering  paddle,  speeding  he  knew  not  whither,  provided 
it  was  away  from  Kau.  And  during  that  time,  and  for 
many  days  to  follow,  he  was  a  man  possessed.  A  single 
motive  shone  before  him  like  a  flame.  It  was  all  that 
gave  him  strength. 

The  unknown  gave  little  trouble — he  was  incapable 
of  it — and  except  when  supplying  him  with  food  and 
drink,  Talbot  kept  his  eyes  averted.  He  found  it  best. 
Finally,  and  with  the  lashed  steering  paddle  still  under 
his  arm,  he  slept. 

He  was  awakened  by  sounds  coming  from  the  bow 
of  the  canoe.  The  unknown  was  sitting  bolt  upright, 
his  sightless  eyes  staring  fixedly  at  the  moon. 

"I  say,"  he  muttered— "I  say!" 

"Yes?"  answered  Talbot. 

"I'm  dying!"  announced  the  unknown. 

Talbot  did  not  answer.  What  was  there  to  be  said 
in  face  of  this  perfectly  natural,  if  belated,  occurrence? 

"I  tell  you  I'm  dying,"  repeated  the  unknown,  as 
though  hurt  that  the  information  had  not  created  a 


252  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

deeper  impression.  "Said  it  would  kill  me,"  he  added 
bitterly.  "What  was  the  use?" 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  he  asked.  "Any 
message.  .  .  ." 

"Message!"  repeated  the  unknown  and  laughed, 
and,  laughing,  died. 

At  the  first  blaze  of  dawn  Talbot  looked  over  the 
side,  down,  down  into  the  crystal-clear  depths. 

"It's  clean,"  he  said  aloud.  And  even  as  he  spoke,  a 
dark  shadow  passed  under  the  canoe  and  was  gone. 

On  the  starboard  bow  there  was  land,  big  land,  by 
the  cloud-capped  hills,  range  on  range.  Talbot  headed 
for  it,  and  in  a  few  hours  landed  on  a  powdered  coral 
beach.  He  buried  the  unknown  above  high- water 
mark,  and  plunged  into  the  bush. 

He  walked,  and  continued  to  walk.  It  seemed  very 
desirable  to  keep  moving,  until  he  could  sleep  from 
sheer  exhaustion.  He  lived  on  fish — caught  by  hand 
in  the  rock-pools — crabs,  shell  fish,  and  wild  fruit.  He 
trudged  like  an  automaton  through  mangrove  swamps 
and  blazing  sand  and  primeval  jungle.  He  did  this 
for  two  weeks,  and  still  lived.  He  was  a  man  who 
knew  what  he  wanted,  and  was  after  it,  that  was  all. 
He  had  landed  on  Tannau,  though  he  had  no  notion 
of  it,  and  he  had  walked  and  slept  and  eaten  his  way 
half  round  the  island  before  he  came  to  the  Company 
sugar  estates  at  Laneka. 

For  a  while  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  a 
lean,  dishevelled  figure,  his  sulu  in  ribbons,  his  shirt 
little  better.  He  was  dazed.  He  must  get  used  to 
seeing  alert  white  men  in  pith  helmets,  hurrying  about 


THE  MASCOT  253 

their  affairs,  lines  of  neat  white  bungalows  with  mos- 
quito doors,  and  mammoth  sheds  of  throbbing  ma- 
chinery. He  squatted  native  fashion  in  the  sand, 
watching  it  all  with  an  awful  loneliness  in  his  soul. 

He  marked  the  superintendent's  bungalow  on  the  hill, 
and  when  night  fell  made  his  way  toward  it.  A  yellow, 
homely  light  filtered  through  the  drawn  blinds.  The 
superintendent  was  smoking  an  after-dinner  cigar 
on  the  veranda. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  demanded,  not  unkindly, 
when  the  first  shock  of  the  encounter  had  passed. 

"Work,"  said  James  Eustace  Talbot. 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA 

IT'S  Harriott!"  exclaimed  someone  with  binoculars 
to  his  eyes. 
"Of   course    it   is,"  was    the   prompt   rejoinder. 
"Herriott  doesn't  let  others  see  to  that  sort  of  thing — 
in  a  race.     She's  pitching,  too,  by  the  look  of  it." 

The  wide  terrace  and  green  lawns  of  a  Sydney  yacht 
club  were  thronged  with  an  enthusiastic  multitude  and 
every  eye  was  on  Stella,  the  leader  in  the  race  for  the 
challenge  cup.  Something  was  amiss  with  her  gaff 
topsail.  It  fluttered  impotently  while  every  other  sail 
strained  and  bellied  to  a  stiff  nor'easter. 

Then  a  pigmy  figure  was  seen  to  creep  for'ard  to  the 
mast,  up  it  by  the  hoops  to  the  shrouds,  and  still  up  and 
outward  along  the  gaff.  Twice  it  paused,  clinging  like 
a  fly  to  the  jolting,  swaying  spar  as  the  yacht  buried 
her  aquiline  nose  in  the  muss  of  a  lumpy  sea.  It 
reached  the  peak,  a  glinting  white  speck  against  the 
intense  blue  background  of  the  sky,  there  was  a  brief 
struggle  that  could  be  better  imagined  than  seen  by  the 
spectators,  and  the  topsail  was  sheeted  home,  true  and 
clean  as  a  piece  of  cardboard. 

A  murmur  of  discreet  applause  went  up  from  the  club 
grounds.  While  jibing  at  the  last  mark,  Stella's  jack- 
yard  had  fouled  the  peak  halyards,  and  Herriott  had 
cleared  it.  The  race  was  his. 

Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  mention  anything  that 

254 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  255 

was  not  Jack  Herriott's.  Abounding  health,  sufficient 
means,  and  a  charming  wife  were  his,  not  to  mention  a 
seeming  inability  to  do  anything  otherwise  than  bril- 
liantly. 

A  blond  and  smiling  giant,  picturesquely  dishevelled, 
he  came  ashore  in  one  of  the  launches,  to  be  inundated 
by  members  and  friends.  They  congratulated  him  on 
winning  the  cup,  but  no  mention  was  made  of  his  feat 
in  clearing  the  jackyard  under  sail.  That  was  no  more 
than  a  piece  of  ordinary  good  seamanship  that  would 
be  expected  from  a  man  like  Herriott,  and  he  knew  his 
kind  far  too  well  to  refer  to  it  himself. 

Behind  him,  and  in  almost  glaring  contrast  as  they 
threaded  their  way  up  the  lawn,  limped  Tony  Landon, 
Herriott's  mate  on  the  Stella,  and  oldest  friend.  Phys- 
ically he  was  sufficiently  unattractive  to  be  remark- 
able rather  than  insignificant,  and  the  wound  in  his 
foot,  received  in  France,  had  not  added  to  his  charm. 
Also  a  certain  gaucherie  made  him  anything  but  a 
social  ornament,  but  in  his  good-natured,  open-hearted 
way  Herriott  had  clung  to  his  old  friend  even  after 
marriage,  which  was  admitted  to  be  a  trifle  unusual. 

Stella  Herriott  met  her  husband  on  the  terrace, 
smiled  her  congratulations,  and  allowed  him  to  pass 
on  into  the  club,  where  he  sprawled  at  length  in  a  deep 
leather  chair  and  listened  to  divergent  views  on  the 
race  with  a  sufficient  showing  of  boredom. 

"Splendid,  wasn't  it?"  said  Landon,  during  a  brief 
moment  with  Stella  at  the  end  of  the  terrace. 

She  nodded  and  smiled.  "And  you,"  she  added 
swiftly. 


256  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"I?"  Landon's  unlovely  face  creased  into  a  frown 
of  perplexity. 

"You  were  at  the  wheel  while  he  was  aloft,  weren't 
you?" 

"Oh,  that!" 

"Yes,"  said  Stella  gravely.     "You'll  dine  to-night?" 

Landon  inclined  his  head  and  retreated  precipitately 
before  the  onrush  of  a  nautical  dowager.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  needed  no  invitation  to  the  Herriotts'.  His 
status  as  a  friend  of  the  family  was  of  the  "dropping 
in  "  variety — which  made  it  all  the  more  difficult  to  keep 
away. 

In  the  lounge  hall  he  found  Herriott  contemplating 
the  cup  he  had  won  that  afternoon. 

"Conning  the  spoils,  eh?"  Landon  commented. 

Herriott  turned  and  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "and 
thinking." 

"Mistake,"  grunted  Landon. 

"As  a  rule,  perhaps,  but  not  this  time."  Herriott's 
eyes  shone  with  enthusiasm.  He  held  aloft  the  cup. 
"This  empty  bauble  has  filled  me  with  horrid  ambi- 
tion  " 

"America  Cup  or  anything  like  that?" 

"Something  as  far  from  cups  as  I  can  get.  I'm  sick 
of  'em." 

Landon  nodded. 

"And  of  racing,  and  racing  machines,  and  white 
flannels,  and  club  dinners,  and  claptrap.  I  want  the 
sea." 

"Rather  a  large  order,  isn't  it?" 

"You  ought  to  know." 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  257 

Landon  did  know.  There  were  few  things  he  had 
not  done  in  a  somewhat  hectic  youth,  from  brass  polish- 
ing to  sailoring  before  the  mast. 

"I've  never  had  a  chance  really  to  get  out,"  com- 
plained Herriott — "family  and  that  sort  of  thing — but 
I'm  going  to,  now,  that's  all.  Stella  agrees  that  it 
would  do  us  both  good." 

"Both?" 

"Yes,  you  don't  imagine  she'd  be  left  out  of  anything 
like  that,  do  you?" 

Landon  did  not  answer. 

"I  don't  believe  Lan  approves,"  Herriott  com- 
municated to  his  wife  in  mock  confidence  during  dinner. 
"Thinks  the  sea's  altogether  too  much  for  us.  We'll 
teach  him ! " 

And  they  did  over  coffee  in  the  lounge. 

"Elucidate  the  mystery,"  suggested  Landon,  stirring 
his  cup  thoughtfully. 

"Certainly,"  beamed  Herriott.  "Our  idea  is  no  paid 
hands,  salt  junk,  four  hours  on  and  eight  off,  and  a 
passage  and  perhaps  a  bucketing  in  a  boat,  instead  of  a 
slithering  match  in  a  racing  machine." 

"Whereto?" 

"The  Islands,  for  choice." 

"I  see,"  said  Landon,  after  a  pause. 

"Drat  the  man!"  Herriott  broke  out,  with  a  char- 
acteristic touch  of  impatience.  "What's  the  matter? 
Think  Stella's  not  up  to  it?  " 

Landon's  slow  glance  travelled  from  his  coffee  cup  to 
the  delicate  profile  of  the  woman  at  his  side. 

"Because  I  may  tell  you  she's  the  best  hand  I  ever 


258  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

had  aboard,"  Herriott  defended  loyally.  "If  you  think 
the  briny's  too  much  for  Stella,  you  ought  to  have  been 
with  us  in  the  sailing  dinghy  when " 

"I  wasn't  thinking  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  Lan- 
don  quietly. 

"Then  perhaps  you're  frightened  of  me,"  suggested 
Herriott,  with  an  incredulous  but  slightly  nettled  laugh. 

Landon  laughed  also.  The  occasion  called  for  it. 
Stella  saw  fit  to  come  to  the  rescue. 

"When  you've  quite  done  discussing  me  like  a 
pound  of  pork,"  she  said,  "may  I  suggest  that  we're 
giving  poor  Lan  rather  an  uncomfortable  evening?" 

"I  hope  so,"  grinned  Herriott. 

"And  do  you  expect  him  to  enthuse  over  anything? 
Because  I  don't." 

"He  needn't,"  complained  Herriott;  "but  that's  no 
reason  why  he  should  sit  like  an  owl  when  his  skipper — 
his  skipper,  mark  you — suggests  getting  out  of  sight  of 
the  club  house  for  once." 

"And  all  this,"  sighed  Landon  resignedly,  "because 
I  don't  leap  to  my  feet  and  wave  my  arms  in  ecstasy 
at  the  notion  of  you  good  people  facing  salt  junk  for  a 
month!" 

"Then  you'll  come?" 

"I?" 

"Listen  to  him!"  wailed  Herriott.  "He's  just  tum- 
bled to  it  that  he's  wanted." 

Landon  stared  at  his  injured  foot  after  a  fashion  of 
his.  "As  to  navigation,"  he  suggested  irrelevantly, 
"my  mathematics  are  the  memory  of  an  ugly  dream 
these  days.  How  are  yours?" 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  259 

"Worse.  I  thought  of  taking  old  Owen.  He  has  a 
yachting  ticket,  and  juggling  with  sights  and  figures  is 
about  all  he's  fit  for." 

Landon  stirred  in  his  chair,  then  rose  abruptly.  "All 
right,"  he  said,  "I'll  go— I  mean- 

"We  know  what  you  mean,"  laughed  Herriott — 
"that  you  will  be  delighted  to  accompany  my  wife  and 
myself  on  a  unique  cruise  to  the  Islands." 

"Something  like  that,"  said  Landon.     "Good-night." 

When  he  had  gone,  Herriott  fell  to  discussing  plans 
with  the  ardour  of  a  schoolboy.  He  was  intense,  virile, 
over  anything  that  took  his  fancy,  and  it  was  so  that 
Stella  loved  to  see  him.  They  had  been  married  a 
contented  year,  and  it  was  their  mutual  taste  for  yacht- 
ing that  had  brought  them  together.  Stella  would 
never  forget  that.  Born  of  seafaring  stock,  and 
reared  within  sight  and  sound  of  the  Pacific's  infinite 
moods,  her  own  love  of  the  sea  and  ships  was  innate. 
Unconsciously,  perhaps,  her  standards  were  set  by 
them.  There  are  some  women  like  that. 

"There's  no  fathoming  old  Lan,"  Herriott  called 
through  to  her  from  the  dressing  room  that  night.  "I 
wonder  if  we're  dragging  him  into  this  thing  against 
his  will?" 

"I  don't  think  any  one  could  do  that,"  she  answered. 

"I  suppose  not,  but :  The  rest  was  smothered 

in  a  yawn,  and  Herriott  fell  to  whistling  a  chanty  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

Stella  awoke  suddenly,  completely,  as  one  gets  into  the 
habit  of  doing  at  sea.  The  Pioneer,  a  snub-nosed,  es- 


260  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

sentially  sea-worthy  pilot  cutter  of  fifteen  tons  register, 
converted  into  a  luxurious  cruiser  with  tremendous  en- 
thusiasm by  Herriott,  was  rolling  idly,  her  canvas 
fluttering,  the  boom  straining  at  the  main  sheet  with 
every  lurch  of  the  ship. 

Stella  concluded  they  were  becalmed,  and  instinc- 
tively pitying  the  unfortunate  on  watch,  settled  down 
again  to  make  the  most  of  the  few  hours'  sleep  at  her 
disposal.  From  the  first  she  had  insisted  on  being 
treated  as  one  of  the  crew,  nothing  more  nor  less,  and 
she  had  been  taken  at  her  word.  In  consequence,  since 
leaving  port  four  days  ago  she  had  been  happier  than  at 
any  time  since,  as  a  girl,  she  had  navigated  her  own  small 
craft  amongst  the  rocky  bays  and  islands  of  her 
home. 

The  same  sea  sense  that  had  told  her  the  Pioneer  was 
becalmed  now  informed  her  that  such  a  thing  could  not 
be.  There  was  a  breeze;  she  could  hear  it.  Was  it 
possible  that  the  yacht  had  come  up  into  the  wind,  that 
the  helmsman  had  succumbed  to  the  terrible  drowsiness 
that  often  assails  him  through  staring  overlong  at  the 
swaying  compass  card?  She  slipped  from  the  bunk  of 
her  minute  cabin  and  passed  through  to  where  a  slid- 
ing hatch  aft  afforded  a  glimpse  of  the  helmsman  in  the 
steering  well.  There  was  none.  The  wheel  was  de- 
serted and  locked  amidships.  The  Pioneer  was  hove- to. 

Through  a  porthole  in  the  hatch  combing  it  was  also 
possible  to  command  a  view  of  the  deck  for'ard,  and  here 
with  face  pressed  close  to  the  glass  Stella  stood  as  one 
hypnotized.  In  the  searching  moonlight  all  was  clear. 
Her  husband  and  Landon  were  on  deck,  barefooted 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  261 

as  always  but  standing  with  bowed  heads  beside  an  in- 
distinct shape  that  lay  in  shadow.  Landon's  lips  were 
moving. 

At  the  moment  Stella  was  impelled  to  rush  on  deck. 
What  had  happened?  Why  had  they  not  told  her? 
Was  this  treating  her  as  one  of  the  crew  ?  But  something 
restrained  her,  perhaps  the  age-old  discipline  of  the  sea- 
farer that  was  in  her  blood.  The  captain,  even  if  he 
were  her  own  husband,  had  not  seen  fit  to  summon  her. 
Perhaps  he  was  right.  Her  presence  might  have  made 
things  more  difficult.  In  any  case  it  was  enough. 

Landon's  lips  had  ceased  to  move.  The  two  men 
stooped,  raised  the  burden  at  their  feet,  and  gently 
lowered  it  over  the  side.  When  they  straightened 
themselves,  their  hands  were  empty.  They  came  aft, 
talking  in  low  tones,  but  when  seated  on  the  sliding 
hatch  every  word  was  audible. 

".  .  .  and  what  on  earth  do  we  do  now?"  de- 
manded her  husband  in  a  voice  that  was  new  to  her. 

"Hush!"  whispered  Landon.  "She  still  sleeps, 
thank  God!" 

"Hush  nothing!"  said  Herriott  petulantly.  "She 
would  be  the  first  to  want  to  be  told." 

There  was  a  short  pause. 

"I  know,"  said  Landon.  "Of  course  you  must  do 
as  you  think  best — my  mistake." 

The  matter  seemed  to  pass  from  Herriott's  mind. 

"We  must  turn  back,"  he  stated  firmly;  "that  goes 
without  saying.  But  what  I  don't  know  is  how  we're 
going  to  get  there.  Do  you?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  lost  child. 


262  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"We  have  yesterday's  noon  position  on  the  chart, 
and  we've  got  a  log.  It's  dead  reckoning,  and  I  can 
do  that.  If  the  present  wind  holds " 

"Ah,  the  wind!"  muttered  Herriott.  "I  was  just 
thinking ' ' 

"I  shouldn't  do  too  much  of  that.  It  isn't  always 
good." 

"What  d'you  mean?"     The  tone  was  truculent. 

"I  mean,"  came  Landon's  level  response,  "that  we're 
on  a  different  lay  to  racing  now.  We're  at  sea.  We've 
been  playing  at  things;  now  we're  up  against  'em. 
What's  more,  we're  *  hands' — not  bad  'hands,'  as  they 
go — but  we  can't  navigate." 

"Is  that  what  made  you  so  infernally  chary  of  joining 
us?" 

"Partly." 

"And  the  rest?" 

"There's  something  coming  up  from  the  nor'east," 
said  Landon.  "How's  the  barometer?" 

Stella  heard  him  creep  for'ard,  down  the  fo'castle 
companion,  and  into  the  saloon.  There  was  the  brief 
flash  of  an  electric  torch,  again  darkness,  and  the  soft 
patter  of  his  returning  footfall. 

"How  is  it?"  came  Herriott's  anxious  question. 

"Fallen,  and  still  at  it." 

"And  what  does  that  mean  here?" 

"Haven't  a  notion  till  it  gets  us,"  said  Landon,  "but 
we're  all  right  hove-to.  Look  here,  this  thing  has  got 
on  our  nerves,  and  small  wonder.  I  suggest  you  turn 
in  until  dawn." 

"And  you?" 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  263 

"I'm  as  comfortable  here  as  anywhere." 

"You'll  call  me  if  anything  happens?" 

"Double  quick." 

By  the  time  Herriott  had  reached  the  saloon  Stella 
was  in  her  bunk.  She  heard  a  cupboard  opened  softly, 
the  faintest  clink  of  glass,  and  a  sigh  as  her  husband 
settled  down  on  one  of  the  settees.  She  lay  motionless, 
staring  wide-eyed  at  the  white-enamelled  timber  over- 
head. 

With  the  dawn  a  gray  nor'easter  bore  down  upon  the 
Pioneer,  and  quickly  strengthened  to  a  gale.  Hove-to 
under  double-reefed  mainsail,  the  little  yacht  took  it 
without  flinching,  as  she  had  been  built  to  do,  and  Stella 
busied  herself  with  preparing  hot  drinks  for  the  men 
when  they  should  come  below. 

In  passing  through  the  saloon  to  the  galley  she  found 
her  husband  still  outstretched  on  the  cushions. 

"Stella,"  he  said,  "I  have  something  horrible  to  tell 
you.  Owen  died  last  night." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  simulate  surprise,  but  sat  on 
the  settee  beside  him  without  speaking. 

"He  just  petered  out  at  the  wheel,"  Herriott  went  on 
in  a  strained  voice.  "It  was  my  relief,  and  I  found  him 
sitting  there — dead.  Heart  failure,  I  suppose.  We — 
we  made  quite  sure,  and  then  buried  him." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  said  Stella  gently. 

"Lan — we  both  thought  it  best  not  to.  We  should 
never  have  brought  him.  It's  my  fault.  I  feel  terrible 
about  it." 

"Why?"  said  Stella.  "You  needn't.  It  was  no 
one's  fault.  He  knew  what  he  was  in  for,  and  still 


264  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

wanted  to  come."  She  paused.  "It's  the  way  I 
should  like  to  go  when  I  do,"  she  added  quietly. 

Herriott  looked  at  her.  There  was  something  in  his 
eyes  that  she  had  not  seen  there  before. 

"You  take  it  well,"  he  said. 

"How  else  would  you  have  me  take  it?"  she  asked 
him. 

"It's  this  awful  feeling  of  responsibility  for  every- 
thing— everything."  muttered  Herriott.  "  It  weighs  me 
down.  I  must  share  it  with  someone." 

"Why  not  with  me?"  said  Stella. 

"Lan  doesn't  approve " 

"Pouf  for  Lan!"  said  Stella.     "He's  not  captain." 

"I  suppose  that's  it.     But  he  ought  to  be." 

Stella  gave  him  a  quick  almost  startled  look. 

"He  ought  to  be,"  repeated  Herriott.  "I  feel  it. 
He  has  this  infernal  sea  knack  of  doing  things  without 
talking  about  them.  He's  a  born  seaman.  I'm  dis- 
covering that  I'm  not." 

Stella  put  a  finger  to  his  lips.  "Never  say  that,"  she 
said.  "I  can't  believe  it." 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  to." 

"I  mean  I  don't  want  to,  and  I  can't." 

A  wave  crest  smote  the  Pioneer  a  resounding  thwack 
on  her  snub  nose  and  swept  the  deck,  dying  with  a  gur- 
gle in  the  scuppers. 

Herriott  swung  his  feet  from  the  settee. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "You  may  as  well  know.  We're 
hove-to  in  a  gale  that  may  last  a  week  and  drift  us  any- 
where. There's  nothing  between  us  and  the  South  Pole 
but  the  sea,  and  neither  Lan  nor  I  can  navigate.  I 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  265 

think  that's  all — oh,  except  that  there  are  only  fifteen 
gallons  in  the  fresh- water  tank.  You  see  the  position? " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "and  thanks — I  like  to  know.  I'll 
have  breakfast  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

Herriott  caught  her  at  the  galley  door.  "No,  by 
thunder,  you  don't!"  he  roared,  thrusting  her  aside,  and 
commenced  wrestling  with  the  kettle  in  the  reeling 
galley. 

Stella  left  him  to  it,  and  went  on  deck  in  oilskins. 
Landon,  soaked  through,  was  limping  about  the  deck 
seeing  to  lashings. 

"Better  go  below!"  he  shouted  at  her  above  the 
turmoil  of  wind  and  sea. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  returned  him  look  for  look, 
and  proceeded  to  help.  Soon  they  had  finished.  The 
Pioneer  rode  like  a  cork.  Gray,  wind-swept  hills  of 
water  bore  down  on  her  out  of  the  angry  murk  ahead, 
but  she  soared  to  their  summit  and  down  their  reverse 
slopes  with  the  agility  of  an  acrobat. 

"She's  snug!"  shouted  Landon,  grinning  through 
rivulets  of  water.  "Staunch  little  packet." 

Stella  nodded  and  smiled.  He  looked  aft  and  waved 
an  arm. 

"Sea  room,  that's  all  we  want,"  he  said,  "and  we've 
got  it.  She's  all  right;  come  below." 

Stella  was  following  him  toward  the  companion  when 
he  turned  in  the  lee  of  the  hatch. 

"Jack's  told  you?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  they  went  below. 

Herriott  was  fuming  over  the  inadequacies  of  oil 
stoves  in  anything  of  a  sea,  and  when  the  meal  was 


266  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

served  he  sat  silent  and  morose.  He  was  a  changed 
man,  and  he  knew  it.  There  is  nothing  quite  like  a 
prolonged  bucketing  in  small  craft  to  give  the  best  of 
us  a  glimpse  of  himself.  Herriott  felt  vaguely  that  the 
sea  had  found  him  wanting,  and  the  knowledge  alter- 
nately surprised  and  tortured  him. 

Neither  Stella  nor  Landon  addressed  him,  but  talked 
of  the  habits  of  sea  birds  during  storm,  of  the  formation 
and  action  of  waves,  and  such -like  trivialities  that  ir- 
ritated Herriott  beyond  expression.  Was  it  possible 
that  they  were  blind  to  their  position?  Or  were  their 
verbal  banalities  a  mask?  In  any  case  they  were  treat- 
ing him  as  a  child,  he  felt.  It  was  a  conspiracy  between 
this  friend  of  his  and  his  own  wife  to  humiliate  and 
nullify  him.  There  was  a  bond  between  them,  too. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  noticed  it.  How  long  had 
it  been?  What  was  it?  He  must  be  careful,  very 
careful,  but  he  was  not  to  be  fooled.  Suspicion  smoul- 
dered in  his  eyes. 

He  left  the  table  abruptly  and  went  on  deck,  to  cling 
to  the  shrouds  and  stare  stonily  over  the  tossing,  wind- 
swept waste.  In  that  hour  it  seemed  to  Herriott  that 
the  sea  was  imbued  with  personality.  He  had  wanted 
it — as  his  servant.  It  was  here — his  master.  It  was 
sapping  him  of  his  manhood,  discovering  him  to  his 
wife  and  to  his  friend.  It  was  a  mighty,  unknown 
enemy  that  he  hated  and  feared. 

"Jack's  out  of  sorts,"  said  Stella,  when  he  had  gone. 

"I  know,"  Landon  answered,  without  meeting  her 
steady  gaze.  "You  must  remember  I've  known  him  a 
long  time — longer  than  you."  She  waited  for  him  to 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  267 

go  on,  and  he  did — he  had  to.  "Salt  junk,  and  one 
thing  and  another.  He'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two." 

That  was  all  they  said.  It  was  all  they  needed  to 
say. 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  the  Pioneer  rode  and 
drifted,  and  with  the  dawn  of  the  fourth  the  wind 
veered,  without  slackening  strength,  to  the  opposite 
quarter.  Landon  noted  the  change. 

"It's  fair,"  he  said.  They  were  the  first  words  he 
had  uttered  to  Herriott  in  two  days.  "We  ought  to 
make  all  the  northing  we  can." 

"Fire  ahead,"  returned  Herriott;  "you're  in  charge." 

"Since  when?" 

"Now." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  choose." 

The  two  men  faced  one  another  on  the  lurching  deck. 
They  had  known  each  other  as  well  as  it  is  possible  for 
one  man  to  know  another  under  normal  present-day 
circumstances,  yet  now  each  looked  into  the  eyes  of  a 
stranger.  Landon  turned  on  his  heel. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "Stand  by  to  hoist  the  square- 
sail." 

Herriott  obeyed  with  compressed  lips,  and  presently 
the  Pioneer  was  racing  homeward  before  a  following 
gale.  At  the  wheel  it  was  soul-racking  work.  The 
gray  hills  of  water  had  grown  to  mountains,  up  which 
the  little  craft  was  lifted  as  by  a  giant  hand  and  flung 
reeling  into  the  valley  beyond.  Combers,  seemingly 
out  of  the  sky,  hung  over  her  and  broke  as  by  a  miracle, 
astern.  It  was  fatal  for  the  helmsman  to  look  behind 


268  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

him.  In  the  history  of  the  sea  more  than  one  has  been 
shot  for  so  doing.  The  sight  causes  the  breath  to  catch, 
the  body  to  flinch  for  just  that  fraction  of  time  that  it 
takes  to  broach-to  and  founder. 

And  Stella  enjoyed  it!  Herriott  made  the  amazing 
discovery  that  night  while  his  wife  was  on  watch,  and 
her  small,  finely  chiselled  face  came  into  the  searching 
radius  of  the  binnacle  lights.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
thoroughbred  engaged  in  combat  that  it  loved.  The 
thing  was  inexplicable  to  Herriott.  He  dreaded  his 
trick  at  the  wheel  with  an  intensity  of  which  he  had 
never  dreamed  himself  capable. 

At  midnight,  through  the  sliding  hatch,  he  watched 
Landon  relieve  Stella.  They  talked,  Herriott  caught 
wind-blown  snatches  of  it — 

".  .  .  must  be  doing  ten  at  least.  .  .  .  Plumb 
on  our  course,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out.  If  this  lasts.  .  ." 

"She  answers  well." 

"Like  a  bird.  .  .  .  Ah,  here  they  come!"  The 
hissing  thunder  of  a  breaker  drowned  the  rest.  The 
Pioneer  was  hurled  into  a  pit  that  appeared  bottomless, 
until  at  long  last  she  brought  up  with  a  soul-sickening 
jolt.  Landon's  set  face,  with  its  protruding  jaw,  relaxed 
into  a  grin  of  triumph. 

"Like  a  bird!"  he  repeated  admiringly. 

Herriott  staggered  to  his  bunk,  gripped  the  creaking 
white-enamelled  timber  overhead  in  his  two  hands,  and 
laughed — if  it  could  be  called  a  laugh.  "  'Like  a  bird' ! " 
he  mimicked  inanely  between  clenched  teeth,  and 
laughed  again.  The  bond — this  was  the  bond  between 
them,  their  inborn  love  of  the  sea  that  he  had  thought 


THE  HABIT  OF  THE  SEA  269 

his  also  until  the  soul-revealing  nightmare  of  the  last 
two  weeks.  And  now  he  found  himself  an  outsider 
aboard  his  own  ship — with  his  own  wife!  He  was  an 
intruder,  a  mountebank.  Herriott  still  hated  the  sea, 
but  quite  suddenly  he  no  longer  feared  it.  It  was  his 
enemy,  and  he  would  fight. 

At  four  o'clock  he  went  to  relieve  Landon. 

"How's  she  going?"  he  asked. 

"Bit  tricky,"  said  Landon,  without  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  swaying  compass  card. 

Herriott  waited,  but  Landon  made  no  move. 

"It's  my  watch,"  said  Herriott. 

"Do  you  think " 

"I've  given  up  thinking — on  your  advice.  It's  my 
watch." 

The  Pioneer  fell  corkscrewing  into  an  inky  trough. 
Landon  righted  her  with  an  effort. 

"Stella's  below,"  he  said  shortly.  "You  put  me  in 
charge.  I'm  going  to  carry  on." 

A  white  rage  seized  on  Herriott,  but  he  controlled  it. 

"I  was  sick,"  he  said  steadily.  "I'm  all  right  now, 
and  I'll  take  over." 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  but  there  was  none. 

"If  you  don't  hand  over,  I'll  make  you,"  said  Herriott. 

"Don't  be  a  fool — as  well,"  muttered  Landon. 

Herriott  took  him  in  his  powerful  hands,  flung  him  on 
deck,  and  seized  the  wheel. 

"  Go  below,"  he  ordered,  and  Landon  went. 

Outside  Stella's  cabin  he  paused. 

"You  heard?  "he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 


270  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"He  took  me  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  pitched  me 
on  deck  like  a  dog,"  he  whispered  gleefully.  "He's  at 
the  wheel,  with  a  face  like  thunder.  Jack's  found  him- 
self." 

"Thank  you,  Lan,"  said  Stella. 

That  was  an  interview  between  his  wife  and  his  friend 
that  Herriott  never  heard  about,  but  when  the  Pioneer, 
after  as  evil  a  night  as  she  had  yet  encountered,  ran  into 
fair  weather  and  finally  picked  up  her  mooring  off  the 
club-house,  he  took  Landon  aside. 

"Is  an  apology  any  good,  old  man?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  bit,"  snapped  Landon.  "You  ought  to  have 
brained  me." 


BARTER 

BSLLAIRS  crushed  a  mosquito  on  his  left  cheek 
with  the  precision  of  an  expert,  and  addressed 
the  Pacific  Ocean  dispassionately: 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  the  fascination — or  is  it  the 
lure? — of  these  storied  isles  of  the  Equator?  " 

The  Pacific,  except  for  flinging  another  lazy  ripple  up 
the  wet  sand,  did  not  answer.  Neither  did  Tritton. 

"You  are  uncommunicative,  my  friend,"  observed 
Bellairs. 

"What's  the  good  of  talking?"  grumbled  Tritton, 
who  carried  throughout  life  the  air  of  one  nursing  a 
grievance. 

"Talking  is  a  recognized  medium  of  intercourse," 
explained  Bellairs  sententiously.  "It  is  one  of  the  few 
proofs  we  possess  that  we  are  in  any  way  removed  above 
the  beasts  of  the  field.  You  surely  wouldn't  deprive  us 
of  our  little  conceit?" 

"Then  talk  sense." 

Bellairs  sighed,  and  drew  his  knees  closer  to  his 
chin. 

"I  will,"  he  said.  "Now  that  we  are  on  Ono,  what 
do  we  do?" 

"I've  got  my  trade,"  asserted  Tritton  with  a  touch  of 
pride. 

271 


272  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Bellairs  hopefully.  "I  had 
forgotten — in  fact,  I  have  forgotten.  What  did  you 
say-  -" 

"Bartender." 

"Ah,  yes." 

"I  can  make  a  'twelve-colour  rainbow'  with  any 
man." 

"Really,"  mused  Bellairs.  "What  a  thing  it  is  to 
carry  at  one's  finger  tips,  as  it  were,  an  accomplishment 
that  can  be  converted  into  hard  cash  at  any  moment. 
As  for  me — I  wonder  if  they  want  a  potman  on  Ono." 

"Thought  you  was  the  educated  sort,"  sneered  Trit- 
ton. 

"I  am,"  admitted  Bellairs,  "very  highly  educated,  I 
believe.  Hence  my  colossal  ignorance." 

It  was  this  sort  of  remark  that  annoyed  Tritton.  It 
left  nothing  to  be  said.  He  considered  Bellairs  a  fool, 
and  Bellairs  was  the  first  to  admit  it,  which  rather  takes 
the  wind  out  of  one's  sails.  But  there  was  reason  to 
believe  that  he  had  money,  which  in  itself  was  quite 
enough  to  quell  any  outward  signs  of  dislike  on  Tritton's 
part. 

The  two  men,  as  strangely  assorted  a  pair  as  ever 
drifted  across  one  another's  path,  had  been  stewards 
aboard  the  Manara  for  the  last  month,  and  by  some 
freak  of  fate  had  both  seen  fit  to  desert  at  Ono,  in  the 
Lau  Group.  They  had  come  from  heaven  knows 
where;  they  were  bound  they  knew  not  whither.  They 
belonged  to  that  restless  band  of  world-wanderers  who 
appear  for  a  space  in  the  utmost  corners  of  the  earth 
and  are  gone,  unmourned  and  unsung. 


BARTER  273 

"If  a  steward,  why  not  a  potman!"  persisted  Bellairs. 
"I  believe  I  could  be  a  potman;  in  fact,  I  will  be  a  pot- 
man." 

He  rose  deliberately  and  shook  the  sand  from  his 
shapeless  ducks.  He  was  a  large  man,  inclining  to 
corpulence,  and  of  an  age  as  uncertain  as  a  woman's. 
But  there  was  an  air  about  him  that  in  some  subtle  way 
demanded,  and  usually  elicited,  respect. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  in  will  power,  friend  Tritton," 
he  remarked,  as  they  trudged  through  the  sand  toward 
the  settlement.  "I  have  heard  one  can  think  oneself 
into  almost  anything.  Potman!"  he  added,  with 
closed  eyes. 

The  settlement  proved  to  be  the  usual  semi-circle  of 
weather-board  stores  and  bungalows  facing  the  beach. 
Elephantine  native  women  in  gaudy  wrappers  drifted 
aimlessly  about  the  thoroughfare,  and  dogs,  with  their 
inevitable  Island  heart  disease,  lay  sleeping  at  inter- 
vals along  the  wooden  sidewalk.  Apart  from  these 
signs  of  animation,  Ono's  metropolis  apparently  con- 
tained nothing  but  yellow  sunlight  and  the  boom  of 
surf. 

"Looks  lively,  don't  it?"  observed  Tritton. 

Bellairs  mopped  his  face  with  an  already  soaking 
handkerchief. 

"Never  go  by  outward  appearances,"  he  urged  hope- 
fully. "Who  knows ?" 

But  Tritton  had  left  him  and  vanished  through  the 
swinging  doors  of  the  Polynesian  Hotel.  Bellairs  seated 
himself  in  a  weather-beaten  cane  chair  under  a  screw- 
pine.  In  a  surprisingly  short  time  Tritton  emerged. 


274  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Nothing  doing,"  he  said.  "Whisky  neat  with 
chaser." 

"But  how  nice,"  murmured  Bellairs. 

"If  you  can  pay  for  it.  But  where's  the  chance  for  a 
real  live  wire  with  a  nigger  woman  dispenser  and  noth- 
ing to  dispense?  This  is  what  they  call  'steamer  day' 
in  these  parts,  and  as  far  as  I  can  see  the  whole  of 
Ono  lives  at  the  Polynesian  until  the  shipment  runs 
dry." 

"Then  a  potman 

"Oh,  dry  up!"  snapped  Tritton. 

"I  am,"  returned  the  imperturbable  Bellairs,  moisten- 
ing his  lips.  "Let  us  mingle  with  the  giddy  throng  and 
trust  to  something  eventuating.  I  can  feel  the  lure  of 
these  blessed  islands  stealing  over  me  already." 

After  something  like  an  hour's  contact  with  every 
known  species  of  the  human  race  south  of  the  Line 
Tritton  insinuated  himself  through  a  medley  of  planters, 
traders,  and  what-not  to  where  Bellairs  was  carrying  on 
a  dignified  conversation  with  the  local  magistrate.  In 
answer  to  a  nudged  elbow,  Bellairs  excused  himself 
with  an  old-world  courtesy  that  left  the  magistrate 
agape,  and  followed  his  companion  upstairs. 

"I've  happened  on  to  something,"  said  Tritton,  turn- 
ing suddenly  at  the  end  of  a  murky  passage  and 
speaking  in  a  tense  undertone.  "Have  you  got  any 
money?" 

Bellairs  regarded  him  speculatively  for  a  moment,  and 
Tritton's  eyes  fell.  He  was  physically  incapable  of  sus- 
taining a  direct  gaze,  and  he  knew  it,  which  always 
makes  an  affliction  the  harder  to  bear. 


BARTER  275 

"A  plain  question  deserves — a  plain  question,"  said 
Bellairs  ponderously.  "Do  I  look  as  if  I  had 
money?" 

Tritton  was  on  the  point  of  turning  away  in  disgust. 
There  was  no  getting  nearer  to  this  fool  of  a  man.  But 
he  remembered  himself  in  time. 

"You're  mighty  cheerful  for  any  one  who  hasn't,"  he 
said,  with  a  feeble  attempt  at  banter. 

"Thank  you  for  those  kind  words,"  beamed  Bellairs. 
"And  what  if  I  have?" 

"I  know  how  you  can  multiply  it  by  a  hundred  in  two 
months." 

"Really?    How?" 

Tritton's  glance  roamed  the  dim  interior  of  the  Poly- 
nesian for  a  space,  and,  by  the  time  it  had  reached  his 
feet,  where  it  usually  rested,  he  had  gained  control  of 
himself. 

"See  here,"  he  said  patiently,  "if  I  told  you  how  this 
thing  is  to  be  done  you  could  do  it  without  me,  couldn't 

you?" 

"I  very  much  doubt  it,"  said  Bellairs. 

"Well,  that's  how  most  people  would  look  at  it.  I 
have  the  scheme,  you  have  the  money.  What  about 
it?" 

"A  partnership?"  suggested  Bellairs,  with  the  light  of 
inspiration  in  his  rather  weak  eyes. 

Tritton  nodded. 

"Lead  on,  partner,"  said  Bellairs. 

A  doubtful-looking  individual  in  soiled  ducks  and  a 
battered  pith  helmet  awaited  them  on  the  veranda  over- 
looking the  sun-soaked  beach.  Bellairs  bowed  grace- 


276  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

fully  and  ordered  three  glasses  of  the  Polynesian's  in- 
variable from  a  Solomon  Island  houseboy. 

"It's  like  this,"  said  the  individual,  in  unnecessarily 
subdued  tones,  when  the  three  heads  were  well  over  the 
wicker  table:  "Ono's  no  good  to  any  man." 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  said  Bellairs  brightly.  "In 
fact,  it's  a  case  of  'Oh,  no' ! " 

The  individual  regarded  him  blankly  until  Tritton's 
foot  came  into  contact  with  his  own,  when  he  contrived 
to  laugh. 

"Exactly,"  he  said.  "But  to  return  to  business: 
you  mustn't  judge  the  Laus  by  Ono,  any  more  than  you 
can  judge  the  last  place  on  the  map.  It's  the  outlying 
islands  that  count.  I've  just  come  in  from  Taneba — 
had  to,  fever,  and "  He  stopped  abruptly,  pro- 
duced a  dirty  bandana  handkerchief,  and,  untying  a 
knot  in  one  corner,  rolled  on  to  the  table  three  fair- 
sized  pearls. 

"Two  hundred,"  he  added  shortly;  "just  had  'em 
priced;  and  all  for  a  dud  safety-razor  and  three  coloured 
prints  of  a  defunct  monarch  in  medals.  Fact  is,  they 
don't  know.  The  Laus  are  not  like  the  Paumotus  or 
any  recognized  pearling-grounds,  where  every  Kanaka 
is  a  born  judge  of  stones.  Here  they  find  them  some- 
times, and  just  don't  know  what  they've  got.  These 
were  in  a  baby's  rattle.  .  .  ." 

He  said  a  great  deal  more,  and  the  brief  tropical 
twilight  had  descended  on  Ono  when  the  partners 
emerged  from  the  Polynesian. 

"A  most  informative  person,"  was  Bellairs's  verdict 
as  he  strolled  along  the  beach  toward  the  harbour  with 


BARTER  277 

Tritton  in  anxious  attendance.  "I  wonder  what  it  was 
all  about?" 

"Can't  you  see?"  wailed  Tritton.  "There's  money 
in  this  thing." 

"Quite,"  agreed  Bellairs.  "I  was  merely  wondering 
where  our  obliging  friend  comes  in." 

"He  has  a  trading  cutter  open  to  charter.  It's  only 
a  pound  a  day,  and— 

"Ah,"  murmured  Bellairs. 

This  brief  utterance  had  an  extraordinary  effect  on 
Tritton.  His  thin  mouth  twitched  at  the  corners,  and 
a  glint  came  into  his  furtive  eye. 

"You're  not  going  to  let  me  down,"  he  accused  in  a 
tone  half  whine,  half  threat — "not  after  me  telling  you? 
Because 

For  no  apparent  reason  he  stopped.  Bellairs  re- 
garded him  with  the  air  of  one  studying  the  writhings  of 
an  insect. 

"Because  what?"  he  said,  and,  receiving  no  answer, 
resumed  his  way  toward  the  harbour.  "Try  and  re- 
member that  confidence  is  the  foundation  of  successful 
partnership,  friend  Tritton,"  he  remarked  airily.  "My 
innocent  observation  was  intended  to  convey  that  I 
had  discerned  the  reason  of  our  friend's  magnanimity; 
and  why  should  we,  the  firm  of  Bellairs  &  Tritton,  pay 

one  pound  a  day  for  a  craft  when Now,  how  would 

that  snub-nosed  atrocity  suit  us?  " 

They  had  stopped  at  the  harbour  wall  of  coralite 
boulders  and  stood  looking  down  on  the  Ono  trading 
fleet,  which  reflected  the  characteristics  of  its  owners  to 
a  halyard.  The  particular  craft  Bellairs  had  pointed 


278  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

out  was  a  decrepit  cutter  of  about  ten  tons  register, 
with  the  name  Moana  on  her  quarter  and  a  board  lashed 
to  the  port  shrouds  marked  "For  Sale." 

"I  didn't  know  you  meant  to  buy,"  said  Tritton  in 
surly  apology. 

"  That  is  where  you  have  to  be  so  exceedingly  careful," 
returned  Bellairs. 

"Can  you  sail  a  ship?" 

Bellairs  closed  his  eyes. 

"I  seem  to  remember  a  following  sea  off  Finisterre 
when  to  look  astern  was  to  be  lost.  And  haven't  I — 
yes,  surely — some  recollection  of  the  Mediterranean 
when  Lady  Sibyl  inadvertently  dropped  her  'pom'  over- 
board, and  I  failed  to  retrieve  .  .  .  ?" 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  said  Tritton  with  dawning 
hope  in  his  voice.  "We  shall  only  want  some  grub 
and  a  bit  of  barter." 

"A  bit  of  what?" 

"Barter."  Tritton  winked  knowingly.  "You  leave 
that  to  me." 

"I  will,"  said  Bellairs;  "barter  shall  be  your  special 
care.  I'll  see  about  the  ship.  I  suggest  that  we  meet 
here  about  eleven  o'clock  to-night." 

Tritton  nodded  almost  cheerfully,  and  departed  on 
his  mysterious  quest. 

He  received  something  of  a  surprise  about  11.30  that 
same  night,  when,  raising  his  head  from  the  task  of 
stowing  barter  in  the  Moana's  fo'cstle  locker,  he  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  ripple  of  water  past  the  ship's  side. 

On  reaching  deck  he  was  still  more  astonished  to  find 
the  decrepit  cutter  slipping  quietly  out  to  sea  under 


BARTER  279 

mainsail  and  jib,  with  his  partner  in  the  steering  well 
humming  a  contented  little  tune  as  he  fondled  the  tiller. 

The  lights  of  Ono,  mostly  issuing  from  the  Polynesian 
Hotel,  grew  fainter  astern,  and  presently  they  were 
alone  with  the  sea  and  the  stars  and  a  light  southeast 
"trade." 

It  affected  Tritton  strangely.  He  had  never  done 
anything  of  the  sort  before,  and  he  was  vaguely  awed 
by  the  mystery  of  it  all — awed  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  by  something  other  than  money  and  brute  force. 
He  went  aft  for  company. 

"This  is  all  right,"  he  said,  staring  up  at  the  towering 
mainsail.  "What's  it  worth?" 

"That  is  impossible  to  say,"  said  Bellairs,  "until 
we've  tried  her;  as  impossible  as  in  the  case  of  a  horse  or 
a  wife." 

"And  how  d'you  know  where  you're  going?" 

"I  don't,"  admitted  Bellairs,  "except  that  by  the 
Cross  and  a  pocket  compass  we're  heading  for  Taneba." 

"The  Cross?" 

"Yes;  some  of  those  curious  little  twinkling  fellers 
up  there.  Ever  noticed  them,  friend  Tritton?" 

Tritton  remained  silent.  He  was  thinking,  wonder- 
ing, if  Bellairs  were  quite  the  sort  of  fool  he  seemed. 

He  was  wondering  much  the  same  thing  the  next 
morning,  when  the  Moana  was  bowling  comfortably 
along  with  lashed  tiller,  and  Bellairs  came  below  to 
consult  the  chart. 

"As  this  was  lent  me  by  my  particular  friend  the 
magistrate,  I  should  be  obliged  if  you  would  refrain 
from  sitting  on  it,"  he  said,  smoothing  out  the  parch- 


280  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

ment  on  the  fo'castle  table,  and  studying  its  strange 
hieroglyphics  with  apparent  understanding. 

Undoubtedly  Bellairs  knew  what  he  was  about  at  sea. 
Tritton  reached  this  conclusion  on  the  second  day,  and 
when  on  the  third  Bellairs  pointed  out  a  blue  smudge 
on  the  starboard  bow,  and  laconically  intimated  that 
it  was  Taneba,  Tritton  found  himself  holding  his  partner 

in  much  the  same  esteem 
as  a  child  might  a  conjurer 
who  produces  a  rabbit  from 
a  hat. 

"According  to  direction," 
^  said  Bellairs,  when  six  fath- 
oms of  the  Moana's  rusty  cable  had  run  into  Taneba 
lagoon,  "this  is  where" we  await  developments." 

It  was  not  long  before  canoes  put  out  from  shore, 
and,  following  a  parley  which  neither  side  understood 
in  the  least,  the  Moanas  decks  were  soon  crowded 
with  Kanakas  and  their  wares.  These  consisted  for 
the  most  part  of  taro  root,  chickens  suffering  from  mal- 
nutrition, and  bunches  of  bananas  swarming  with  white 
ants. 

"Punk,"  said  Tritton,  after  a  cursory  inspection. 
"We'd  better  show  'em  what  we  do  want,  eh,  Bel- 
lairs?" 

"I  leave  the  commercial  side  entirely  in  your  hands," 
replied  Bellairs,  seating  himself  on  the  stern  horse  and 
peeling  a  banana. 

In  impressive  silence  Tritton  produced  his  "barter" 
and  arranged  it  with  the  tender  care  of  a  window- 
dresser  on  the  aft  hatch.  There  were  three  papier 


BARTER  281 

mdche  belts,  six  Jew's  harps,  a  packet  of  fish  hooks,  and, 
in  strict  accordance  with  instructions,  several  coloured 
prints  of  someone  or  other  in  whiskers  and  a  red  cum- 
merbund. Tritton  then  passed  on  to  the  gem  of  his 
collection — a  few  synthetic  pearls  of  the  curio-store 
variety,  which  he  held  cupped  in  his  unclean  palm  and 
submitted  for  inspection  with  an  interrogative  rais- 
ing of  the  eyebrows.  Beyond  a  few  nods  and  duckings 
of  recognition  the  audience  remained  unimpressed. 

"He's  right,"  Tritton  told  Bellairs  excitedly  when 
the  last  of  the  visitors  had  taken  to  their  canoes  and 
were  paddling  shoreward.  "They  just  don't  know." 

It  was  late  that  night,  and  the  partners  were  asleep, 
when  a  gentle  rasping  on  the  Moana's  side  brought 
Bellairs  on  deck. 

"Missi  Turaga  (gentleman)!"  came  a  plaintive  voice 
out  of  the  darkness,  and  looking  over  the  side,  Bellairs 
saw  an  outrigger  canoe  made  fast  to  the  Moana's  rail, 
with  a  diminutive  dark  person  sitting  patiently  on  a 
stern  thwart. 

"Good  mornin',  Missi  Turaga,"  droned  the  voice. 
"Urn  Bull  (chief)  of  Niama  say  me  go  all  along  Turaga 
plenty  quick.  Me  go." 

"Madam,"  said  Bellairs  gravely,  "I  greet  you.  My 
beche-de-mer  is  faulty  but  sincere.  Come  aboard  plenty 
quick." 

The  visitor  swung  herself  up  the  Moana's  side  with  the 
agility  of  a  cat,  and  stood  on  deck  revealed  as  a  native 
girl  of  perhaps  twelve,  with  a  mass  of  raven-black  hair, 
a  spotless  sulu,  and  soft  brown  eyes. 

The  reason  for  her  visit  was  an  engaging  mystery  to 


282  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Bellairs  for  upward  of  half  an  hour,  during  which  she 
inspected  the  Moana  from  stem  to  stern  with  duckings 
of  admiration  and  delight.  Then,  happening  on  to  the 
locker  containing  some  of  the  remaining  items  of  Trit- 
ton's  "barter,"  it  became  apparent  that  she  had  paid 
a  midnight  call  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  curl  her 
legs  under  her  and  twang  a  Jew's  harp. 

Bellairs  laughed.     Tritton  did  not. 

"Kick  her  out,"  he  growled  from  his  bunk,  and 
turned  his  yellow  face  to  the  wall. 

He  may  have  slept,  though  it  is  doubtful.  At  any 
rate,  when  next  he  turned  and  opened  his  eyes  he  lay  for 
a  moment  rigid  with  astonishment.  The  child  was  on 
Bellairs's  knee,  industriously  curling  an  end  of  his  rag- 
ged moustache  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  crooned  meke 
air.  It  was  a  homely  little  scene  under  the  yellow 
light  of  the  swinging  lamp;  but  Tritton  hardly  noticed 
it — his  eyes  feasted  on  the  table,  where  lay  ten  fair- 
sized  pearls. 

"Urn  Buli  of  Niama  say  Turaga  like  um  plenty  all 
right,  "the  child  was  babbling  between  twirls  of  Bellairs's 
moustache.  "Um  say  Turaga  pay  plenty  all  right." 

"Um  Turaga,  um — maybe,"  said.  Bellairs,  with  an 
air  of  splendid  indifference. 

It  was  too  much  for  Tritton.  He  moved,  and  the 
child  looked  up.  Instinctively  she  shrank  closer  to 
Bellairs  and  uttered  something  in  her  unintelligble 
jargon.  Bellairs  smiled. 

"Pray  don't  disturb  yourself,  partner,"  he  said; 
"the  lady  tells  me  she  is  not  taken  with  you." 

"Keep  her  talking,"  snapped  Tritton;  "that's  all 


BARTER  283 

you've  got  to  do."  His  hand  went  under  the  pillow  for 
a  moment;  then  he  swung  from  the  bunk,  carefully  strik- 
ing the  table  with  his  foot  so  that  the  pearls  rolled  to  the 
floor. 

"With  a  startled  cry  the  child  sprang  after  them,  but 
Tritton  was  before  her. 

"There,"  he  said,  rising  after  a  protracted  hunt  and 
studiously  counting  ten  pearls  into  the  waiting  brown 
palm.  "Now  are  you  more  taken  with  your  Uncle 
Tritton?" 

"You  no  want  um?"  inquired  the  visitor  perplexedly. 
"Urn  Bull  of  Niama  say  Turaga  like  um  plenty  all 
right." 

"Not  this  time,  thank  you,"  grinned  Tritton. 
"Good-night,  and  mind  the  step." 

A  few  minutes  later  a  bewildered  child  of  nature 
paddled  off  into  the  darkness. 

Bellairs  stood  at  the  ship's  rail  for  some  time  after 
the  rhythmic  plash  of  the  canoe  paddles  had  died  away; 
then  he  sighed  unaccountably  and  went  below. 

Tritton  was  hunched  over  the  table  examining  the 
pearls  as  Bellairs  came  down  the  companion. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  he  exploded.  "Ten-ten!  I 
don't  know  much  about  'em,  but  they  look  as  good  as 
his,  and  at  the  same  price  it  means  a  thousand — a 
thousand,"  he  added  in  an  awed  whisper. 

Bellairs  put  the  coffee-pot  on  the  stove,  and  stood  re- 
garding it  awhile  in  silence. 

"I  confess  to  a  misspent  life,"  he  said  at  last  deliber- 
ately, "but  in  this  case — I  am  not  sure  that  I  like  it, 
friend  Tritton." 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Tritton  turned  in  a  flash. 

"If  you  don't  like  it,  you  know  what  to  do!"  he 
jerked  out. 

"I  was  wondering,"  mused  Bellairs.  "In  a  way  it 
was  excusable — the  true  commercial  instinct  can  be 
held  to  account  for  much — but  don't  you  think  this 
particular  transaction  rather  savours  of  robbing  the 
Jdd's  money-box?" 

Tritton  sprang  to  his  feet  impatiently. 

"You  make  me  tired,"  he  stuttered.  "We  came  out 
after  pearls,  didn't  we?  Well,  we've  got  'em.  If 
they  don't  know  what  a  pearl  is,  why  shouldn't  they  be 
as  satisfied  with  the  curio-store  brand  as  the  real  thing? 
Exchange  is  no  robbery.  If  you  want  to  pay  for  'em 
into  the  bargain,  you  can,  but  leave  me  out  of  it." 

Bellairs  poured  the  coffee  into  a  tin  mug,  drank  it, 
and  climbed  into  his  bunk. 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say,"  he  admitted, 
staring  up  at  the  Moana's  dingy  timbers.  "  To-morrow 
we  will  visit  the  Bull  of  Niama — that  I  may  relieve  my 
pesky  conscience — and  you  spy  out  the  land  for  further 
consignments." 

After  which  enigmatic  utterance  he  slept. 

But  Tritton  did  not.  There  was  too  much  to  think 
about.  "A  thousand!"  He  repeated  the  magic  words 
many  times  before  it  occurred  to  him  with  something  of 
a  shock  that  his  own  share  would  be  precisely  half  that 
amount.  There  was  certainly  a  good  deal  to  be  thought 
about. 

The  pilgrimage  to  Niama  was  not  the  pleasant  ex- 
cursion that  it  had  promised  to  be.  According  to 


BARTER  285 

beche-de-mer  directions  and  copious  gesticulations,  it 
lay  "all  along  beach  plenty  far  too  much,"  and  the 
beach  led  in  turn  through  ankle-deep  mangrove  swamp,, 
through  primeval  jungle,  and  over  a  perfect  switchback 
of  red  earth  hills. 

Even  Bellairs  had  little  to  say,  and  Tritton  trudged 
at  his  side  in  stony  silence.  He  had  ceased  to  speculate 
on  things  in  general,  because  he  had  long  since  decided 
in  his  own  mind  what  must  be  done  to  equalize  the 
deficit  in  his  calculations  of  the  previous  evening.  Op- 
portunity was  all  that  he  lacked,  and  toward  noon  it 
looked  remarkably  like  coming  his  way. 

They  had  reached  a  village  of  sorts,  and  Bellairs  un- 
expectedly collapsed  on  the  mats  of  the  guest  house, 
shivering  convulsively. 

"Not  to  p-put  too  fine  a  p-point  on  it,"  he  stuttered 
between  chattering  teeth,  "  I  feel  rotten." 

Those  were  the  last  words  Tritton  heard  him  utter. 
The  last  sight  of  him  was  a  bulky  figure  under  a  pyra- 
mid of  mats  that  shook  as  with  an  earthquake.  Then 
he  ran.  There  was  no  need  to,  because  fever  always 
takes  large  men  first  and  leaves  them  last,  but  for  some 
reason  Tritton  ran.  He  boarded  the  Moana  and  con- 
trived to  set  sail,  and  it  was  not  until  Taneba  was  a 
smudge  on  the  horizon  that  his  peace  of  mind  was  fully 
restored,  which  for  Tritton  was  probably  a  record. 

Perhaps  even  then  his  satisfaction  was  premature. 
Cities  and  men  and  women  he  knew  how  to  mould  to 
his  own  ends,  but  toward  night,  alone  on  a  waste  of 
waters,  with  no  sense  of  direction,  less  knowledge  of 
a  ship,  and  some  unhealthy  looking  clouds  banking  up 


286  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

on  the  horizon,  Tritton  was  compelled  to  admit  that 
there  was  something  baffling  about  the  sea.  The  same 
distressing  sensation  of  awe  that  had  assailed  him  on 
sailing  from  Ono  crept  over  him  now.  He  dispelled  it 
by  a  glance  at  the  pearls.  They  were  all  there,  all 
ten — a  thousand  pounds'  worth!  The  mere  sight  of 
them  revived  him  like  an  elixir.  During  the  next  few 
hours  he  inspected  them  not  less  than  twenty  times.  It 
was  necessary.  The  Moana  was  tearing  through  a 
jet-black  sea,  mountains  high,  before  a  hurricane,  or  so 
it  seemed  to  Tritton.  In  reality,  she  was  probably  doing 
a  lumbering  eight  knots  before  half  a  gale;  but  ignor- 
ance has  an  unpleasant  knack  of  magnifying.  It  was 
only  possible  to  think  of  the  pearls  now;  Tritton  was  too 
occupied  with  the  tiller  to  do  anything  else,  and  even 
that  was  difficult.  Seas  were  coming  aboard — cold, 
unpleasant  seas  that  lashed  the  face  and  chilled  to  the 
marrow.  Where  was  he  going?  He  did  not  know, 
except  that  it  must  be  away  from  Taneba.  This  was 
the  Pacific  Ocean;  he  did  know  that;  and  there  should 
have  been  blue  sea  and  sunshine  and  islands — many 
islands,  where  one  could  land  at  will  and  barter  with 
fools  of  Kanakas.  There  was  something  radically  amiss 
with  Tritton's  universe.  It  was  wrong,  all  wrong — ex- 
cept for  the  pearls.  .  .  . 

They  were  his  last  thought  before  the  boom  swung  out 
of  the  night  with  a  shriek  of  tackle  and  struck  him  on 
the  side  of  the  head. 

The  long-suffering  Moana  had  gibed,  and  gibing 
before  half  a  gale  was  rather  more  than  she  had  bar- 
gained for.  Her  ancient  mast  went  at  the  deck,  and 


BARTER  287 

when  Tritton  opened  his  eyes  the  ship  wallowed  a  dis- 
mantled wreck. 

There  followed  days  and  nights  which  to  Tritton 
were  now  vague  memories  of  an  ugly  dream.  He  re- 
membered that  the  storm  had  spent  itself  and  that  a 
stark  calm  had  followed,  accompanied  by  a  brazen,  wilt- 
ing heat.  He  remembered  the  awful  discovery  that  in 
his  haste  to  leave  Taneba  he  had  omitted  to  fill  the 
water-beakers,  and  that  half-ripe  bananas  held  mad- 
deningly little  moisture.  But  over  all  a  mist  now 
seemed  to  hover,  a  mist  that  slowly  grew  more  opaque, 
obliterating  all  things  except  the  pearls.  They  were 
all  that  had  kept  Tritton  alive. 

So  the  crew  of  a  trading  cutter  found  him,  babbling 
quietly  to  himself  in  the  fo'castle,  with  a  chewed  ba- 
nana skin  in  one  hand  and  something  in  the  other  that 
he  thrust  from  sight  at  their  approach. 

The  Bull  of  Niama  tugged  a  horny  foot  closer  to  his 
groin. 

"I  do  not  savvy,  Mr.  Bellairs,"  he  said  in  his  precise 
mission  English,  and  with  a  perplexed  wrinkling  of  the 
brow.  "I  send  my  daughter  to  sell  you  pearls  because 
I  run  a  curio  store  in  Levuka  for  many  year,  and  know 
how  the  white  man  loves  them.  I  learn  many  things  at 
my  curio  store  in  the  great  city;  but  what  I  do  not 
learn  is  why,  when  I  send  you  pearls,  you  will  not  buy 
but  send  me  other  pearls  in  exchange.  Now  that  the 
fever  is  better  maybe  you  will  tell  me." 

"Certainly,  Buli"  said  Bellairs,  with  the  utmost 
suavity.  "I  could  not  pay  you  for  the  pearls  because 


288  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

I  have  no  money.  My  worthy  partner  was  under  the 
impression  that  I  had,  and  is  now  paying  the  penalty 
by  being  afloat  somewhere  on  the  Pacific  in  a  ship  that 
is  neither  his  nor  mine.  But  that  is  beside  the  point. 
Now  that  he  has  seen  fit  to  abscond,  I  see  nothing 
against  giving  you  the  facts,  as  a  slight  token  of  grati- 
tude for  all  you  have  done  for  me." 

"That  is  well  said,"  commented  the  Bull  judicially. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Bellairs.  "Must  say  I'm 
rather  taken  with  it  myself.  But  here's  the  rub.  You 
who  have  owned  a  curio  store  in  a  great  city  like  Levuka 
should  know  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  pearls — real 
and  imitation." 

"I  have  heard  so,"  admitted  the  Bull. 

"Well,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  to  it,  we  took  your 
pearls  and  sent  you  ours,  which  were  imitation." 

The  Bull  of  Niama  glanced  up  at  the  high  rafters  of 
the  guest  house,  then  at  Bellairs. 

"So  were  mine!"  he  said. 


THE  LAUGH 

CROWTHER  was  waiting.  He  had  no  notion 
of  it.  He  thought  he  was  enjoying  the  cool  of 
the  morning  with  a  pipe  on  the  veranda,  as 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  for  seven  years  past. 
But  in  reality  he  was  waiting. 

And  presently  it  appeared — the  peak  of  a  lugsail  glid- 
ing slowly  along  the  far  side  of  the  reef.  He  picked  up 
a  battered  telescope  and  trained  it  on  the  moving  scrap 
of  canvas.  Nothing  more  could  be  seen  until  of  a 
sudden,  and  with  surprising  completeness,  the  rest  of 
the  sail  burst  into  view,  together  with  the  dark  bulk 
of  an  outrigger  canoe.  It  had  turned  into  the  boat 
passage,  and  was  now  scudding  through  it  on  the 
eight-knot  current  that  converted  Rahiti  pass  into  a 
mill  race  at  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

Here  there  were  pale  green  shallows  beset  with  coral 
fangs,  and  rocks  rearing  a  vicious  head  out  of  the  swirl 
in  midchannel,  yet  through  them  the  canoe  threaded  a 
headlong  course,  steered  with  unerring  skill  by  the  quick 
eye  and  practised  hand  of  a  slight  figure  in  a  fluttering 
blue  wrapper  that  crouched  alert  in  the  stern. 

With  the  telescope  resting  on  the  veranda  rail, 
Crowther  punctuated  the  performance  with  grunts  of 

approval:  "Ah!  Good!  Umph!  Now He  had 

taught  Mata  how  to  take  Rahiti  pass  at  the  turn  of  the 

289 


290  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

tide,  as  he  had  taught  her  all  that  she  knew,  and  his  was 
the  intense  pride  of  the  tutor  in  an  accomplished  pupil. 
It  was  natural. 

The  canoe  had  now  reached  the  untroubled  waters  of 
the  lagoon,  and  before  its  prow  had  slid  to  rest  on  the 
beach  in  front  of  the  bungalow  the  girl  leapt  into  the 
knee-deep  water  and  held  aloft  a  gleaming  fish. 

"Sanqua!"  she  cried,  and  hurried  up  the  coral  path- 
way to  the  house. 

A  discreet  clapping  of  hands  proceeded  from  the 
veranda  where  Crowther  sprawled  in  a  cane  chair. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  demanded,  standing  before  him 
like  a  crestfallen  child.  "And  for  a  sanqua,  too?" 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  grinned  Crowther. 

For  answer  she  bent  down  and  kissed  him,  then  sank 
to  the  mats  native  fashion  and  launched  into  a  detailed 
account  of  the  capture  of  Crowther's  favourite  fish. 

"He  was  lying  half  under  the  reef — for  shade,  I 
suppose — with  his  tail  and  a  bit  sticking  out.  For  a 
long  time  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  what  to  do " 

"And  the  tail  and  a  bit  waited  while  you  did  it?" 
interpolated  Crowther. 

"Yes.  He  must  have  been  asleep.  Do  fish  sleep, 
Uncle?" 

"No,"  said  Crowther  at  a  hazard. 

"Well,  then,  I  must  have  kept  very  still — I  did  keep 
very  still — and  thought  and  thought.  The  line  would 
have  been  the  safest,  but  somehow  the  spear  seemed 
more — more "  i 

"Sporting,"  suggested  Crowther. 

"Yes.     So  I  tried  to  remember  what  you  told  me 


THE  LAUGH  291 

about — illusory  reflection  and  all  that,  and  it  came  out 
right." 

Crowther  inclined  his  head  in  mock  recognition  of  the 
doubtful  compliment,  but  it  passed  unheeded.  Mata 
babbled  on  in  growing  excitement,  using  indescribable 
little  gestures  to  illustrate  her  meaning. 

"I  aimed  a  good  three  inches  to  the  left  of  him,  and  it 
was  queer  to  feel  the  spear  stick  into  something  that 
didn't  look  as  if  it  was  there.  But  it  was  there,  and 
didn't  he  wriggle!  And  here  he  is,  and — and  it's  my 
birthday,  Uncle." 

"Really?"  said  Crowther,  with  studied  unconcern. 
"Well,  if  you'll  run  along  and  get  into  something  dry, 
we'll  have  breakfast." 

While  she  was  gone,  he  took  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  laid  as  usual  on  the  veranda,  and  pretended  to 
read  a  book  propped  against  the  milk  jug.  But  again 
he  was  waiting,  and  not  for  long.  Mata  slipped  into 
her  customary  chair,  and  was  in  the  act  of  adding  the 
three  well-known  lumps  of  sugar  to  his  comprehensive 
cup  of  tea,  when  the  exclamation  came,  half  word,  half 
gasp:  "Uncle!" 

A  moment  later  she  was  on  his  knee,  one  hand  at  his 
shoulder,  the  other  upheld,  the  better  to  display  a  pretty 
little  pearl  necklace. 

"But  they're  real,"  she  cried,  with  dancing  eyes, 
"really  real!" 

"Oh,  no,"  muttered  Crowther.  "I  went  to  great 
trouble  about  that  necklet — chartered  a  schooner  to 
bring  the  dud  article  all  the  way  from  Sydney." 

But  she  was  not  listening  to  his  heavy  badinage  that 


SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

she  knew  so  well.  Her  head  sank  to  his  shoulder,  and 
there  was  the  hint  of  a  woman's  inexplicable  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  playing  with  the  middle  button 
of  his  drill  jacket,  "you're  too  good  to  me." 

"Much,"  he  admitted  promptly.  "I  often  marvel 
at  my  own  generosity,  forbearance,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
It  would  be  different  if  you  gave  any  cause  for  it — if  you 

were  a  good  girl,  for  instance — but  as  it  is "  He 

sighed  heavily  and  lapsed  into  silence. 

Mata  slid  from  his  knee  and  contemplated  him 
gravely. 

"You're  laughing  at  me,"  she  accused.  "You're 
always  laughing  at  me.  I  wonder  if  you  ever  won't?" 

The  whimsical  smile  died  of  a  sudden  from  Crowth- 
er's  face.  He  leant  forward  and,  taking  her  two  small 
arms  in  his  hands,  stood  her  before  him  like  a  doll. 

"You  mustn't  mind,  Mata,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  new  to  her.  "  I  have  to  laugh.  If  I  didn't  I  should 
do  something  that  you  wouldn't  like  half  as  much.  You 
understand?  I  must  laugh." 

Mata  stared  at  him  wide-eyed,  and  nodded,  though 
she  did  not  understand  in  the  least. 

"Many,  many  happy  returns  of  the  day,  little  girl," 
his  strange,  almost  frightening  voice  went  on,  "and 
don't  ever  again  dare  to  remind  me  when  it's  your  birth- 
day. There,  run  along — my  tea's  getting  cold." 

For  once  Mata  failed  to  obey.  She  did  not  run, 
but  walked,  very  slowly  for  her,  down  the  veranda 
steps  and  along  the  beach,  with  the  pearl  necklet  for- 
gotten in  her  hand.  Against  the  bole  of  a  wind-bent 


THE  LAUGH  293 

palm  she  leant  at  last,  staring  over  the  sea.  She  was 
trying  to  understand.  But  out  of  her  groping  thoughts 
only  the  old,  immutable  truths  emerged.  This  large 
man  with  the  kindly  eyes  and  tickling  moustache  was 
the  most  wonderful  being  in  the  world,  the  only  being 
in  the  world.  He  knew  everything  and  could  do  any- 
thing. What  else  was  there  to  understand?  She  an- 
swered the  question  by  turning  her  attention  to  the  neck- 
lace, and  in  rather  less  than  five  minutes  was  flaunting 
its  glories  before  the  goggling  eyes  of  her  brown-skinned 
playmates  of  the  beach.  Mata  was  sixteen. 

On  the  veranda,  with  his  chair  pushed  back  from  the 
debris  of  breakfast,  Crowther  was  engaged  in  the  rather 
more  protracted  and  infinitely  less  accommodating  re- 
flections of  middle  age.  Mata  was  sixteen.  Sixteen 
was  a  fairly  advanced  age  for  a  child,  wasn't  it?  And 
what  was  it  that  he  had  sworn  to  himself  should  occur 
on  her  sixteenth  birthday — and  on  her  fifteenth,  and 
fourteenth,  for  the  matter  of  that?  He  pretended  that 
it  was  an  effort  to  remember,  though,  as  a  fact  the  thing 
had  hovered  over  him  like  a  cloud  for  some  time  past. 
It  was  a  pretty  little  game  for  a  grown  man  to  be  playing 
with  himself,  this  juggling  with  an  evil  hour  by  putting 
back  the  clock.  It  is  popular,  too,  but,  like  most  games, 
it  comes  to  an  end.  Mata  was  sixteen.  Mata  must 
go  "outside." 

Having  decided  so  much,  irrefutably  this  time, 
Crowther's  musings  led  him  back  to  the  beginning  of  it 
all — that  awful  dawn  ten  years  ago,  when,  on  the  tail 
end  of  a  hurricane,  a  fine  three-masted  schooner  loomed 
out  of  the  murk  to  wind'ard,  running  under  bare  poles 


294  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

and  head-on  for  Rahiti.  The  thing  was  clear  to  him 
now — it  always  would  be  clear — as  on  the  day  that  it 
happened.  He  remembered  summoning  the  "boys" 
and  buffeting  his  way  along  the  wind-whipped  beach 
shouting — shouting  a  warning  to  a  ship  in  a  hurricane 
a  cable's  length  from  the  rocks !  It  was  a  sample  of  the 
inane  things  one  is  apt  to  do  on  occasion.  Then  the 
crash,  almost  drowned  in  the  roar  of  surf,  yet  sickeningly 
distinct,  and  the  hurtling  of  fragments  across  the  beach. 
A  splintered  spar,  he  remembered,  missed  his  head  by 
a  few  feet;  a  strip  of  canvas  encircled  his  legs,  almost 
lifting  him  from  his  feet.  Something  tinkled  on  the 
rocks  behind  him,  probably  metal.  Something  else  was 
swept  into  a  rock  pool  and  left  there  by  the  receding 
wave,  a  bundle  by  the  look  of  it,  that  spun  like  a  top  in 
the  swirl.  But  it  was  a  movement  of  its  own  that 
claimed  Crowther's  sudden  attention.  Either  it  was 
alive,  or  he  had  gone  mad.  In  any  case,  he  clambered 
down  to  the  pool,  despite  the  warning  cries  of  the 
"boys, "  and  made  his  escape  with  the  bundle  under  one 
arm  and  a  breaker  seething  about  his  waist. 

It  was  alive.  It  was  Mata,  and  a  "boy"  bore  her, 
howling  lustily,  to  the  house. 

Crowther  stayed.  He  saw  the  schooner  pounded 
into  the  semblance  of  a  broken  eggshell  against  the  reef 
and  the  battered  remains  sucked  back  into  the  turmoil, 
only  to  be  hurled  aloft  on  a  mighty  comber  and  pitched 
headlong  into  unknown  depths.  Nothing  was  left — 
nothing  but  the  eternal  surf  breaking  on  Rahiti — so 
Crowther  went  home. 

He  found  the  living  room,  his  sacred  living  room,  in 


THE  LAUGH  295 

the  possession  of  a  minute  person  attired  in  a  blanket, 
meditatively  munching  a  banana. 

"Take  it  away,"  he  told  his  Kanaka  cook,  and,  going 
into  his  bedroom,  shut  the  door.  He  could  not  wrench 
from  his  mind  the  awful  picture  of  that  ship,  a  home  of 
warmth  and  light,  buried — buried  alive. 

It  was  not  until  the  evening  that  he  could  bring  him- 
self to  endure  an  interview  with  the  sole  survivor,  who 
stared  at  him  with  wide,  inquiring  eyes,  and  answered 
his  questions,  or  failed  to  answer  them,  according  to  the 
whim  of  the  moment.  Crowther  elicited  the  following: 
it  was  a  female  child  of  six.  It  rather  wanted  its  father, 
though  it  seemed  more  perturbed  over  the  loss  of  a  kit- 
ten named  Zip,  or  something  like  it.  It  could  not  re- 
member its  mother.  It  had  no  notion  how  it  came  to 
be  in  a  rock  pool  on  Rahiti,  but,  by  the  miracle  of  hur- 
ricanes that  can  pulverize  an  iron  winch  into  a  thousand 
fragments  and  leave  a  lamp  chimney  intact,  it  was  un- 
scathed. It  had  come  a  long  way,  from  a  big  house  in 
an  immense  city  by  the  sea,  probably  one  of  the  Pacific 
Coast  towns,  where  it  had  a  dog  called  Peter,  and  a 
horse  that  bucked  when  you  squeezed  a  ball  on  the  end 
of  a  string.  Oh,  and  its  name  was  Mata,  which,  being 
interpreted,  undoubtedly  meant  Martha.  That  was  all. 

For  several  days  Crowther  wondered  what  he  ought 
to  do  about  it,  and  ended,  as  usual  in  the  Islands,  by 
doing  nothing — nothing,  that  is,  but  letting  the  child 
play  in  the  sun  and  sea  with  the  other  juveniles  of  its 
species,  that  appeared  to  emanate  from  the  labour  lines 
in  ever-increasing  swarms. 

It  was  a  visit  to  the  scene  of  the  wreck  that  brought 


296  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Crowther  up  with  a  round  turn.  He  stood  looking 
down  into  the  unfathomable  depths,  thinking  of  the 
ship — the  ship  down  there — and  suddenly  he  said:  "I 
promise."  He  became  aware  that  he  had  spoken  aloud, 
that  he  had  given  his  word  to  someone  or  something. 
It  frightened  him.  From  that  hour  his  attitude 
toward  the  child  changed.  It  seemed  to  dawn  on  him 
that  she  was  something  more  than  a  diverting  pet. 

So,  out  of  the  ensuing  years  and  his  own  efforts,  had 
emerged  the  wondrous  product  that  was  Mata  of  the 
present  day.  She  was  tall,  lithe  like  a  boy,  and  amaz- 
ingly beautiful.  She  knew  all  that  Crowther  could 
teach  her — how  to  handle  a  boat,  swim  without  effort, 
look  upon  deceit  of  any  sort  as  a  species  of  cowardice 
and  therefore  beneath  her,  read  a  book,  and  have  ideas 
of  her  own  on  a  subject.  Crowther  looked  upon  her  as 
the  work  of  his  hands,  and  never  ceased  to  marvel  at 
its  excellence. 

Yes,  it  might  be  said  that  he  had  kept  his  promise — 
so  far.  But  what  of  the  future?  There  were  things 
that  he  could  not  teach  her,  things  that  she  must  know. 
Of  late  he  had  stumbled  on  the  distressing  truth  that  he 
had  brought  her  up  as  a  boy,  and,  in  spite  of  him,  she 
had  grown  into  a  woman — an  annoying  trick  of  Nature. 
He  approached  the  painful  subject  with  characteristic 
bluntness  that  evening  of  her  sixteenth  birthday,  as  they 
sat  reading  by  lamplight. 

"Mata,"  he  said,  "you  know  these  advertisements  of 
schools  in  the  magazines — academies,  they  seem  to  call 
'em — with  pictures  of  girls  dancing,  and  paddling  canoes, 
and  camping  out,  and  what  not?" 


THE  LAUGH  297 

Mata  looked  up  and  nodded. 

"Well,  how  would  you  like  to  go  to  one?" 

"Not  a  bit,  thanks,  Uncle,"  said  Mata. 

"They  learn  other  things,  you  know,"  he  struggled 
on — "things  I  can't  teach  you." 

Mata's  frank  gray  eyes  conveyed  her  disbelief. 

So  through  endless  ramifications  the  discussion  waxed 
and  waned. 

"You  mean,"  said  Mata  at  last,  closing  her  book  with 
a  snap  of  finality — "you  mean  you  want  me  to  go, 
Uncle?" 

And  Crowther  stared  up  at  the  ceiling  before  answer- 
ing, and  down  at  the  mat-strewn  floor. 

"Yes,"  he  lied. 

She  went  to  her  room,  and  Crowther,  feeling  nothing 
short  of  despicable,  listened  outside  her  door.  She 
was  weeping.  Something  swept  over  him  like  a  wave. 
He  knocked  and  entered.  She  was  lying  face  downward 
on  the  counterpane. 

"Mata — Mata!"  he  muttered  stupidly. 

She  turned  and  drew  him  toward  her. 

"Uncle,  you'll  come,  too,  won't  you?"  she  pleaded. 

Crowther  took  a  grip  of  himself  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  said  huskily.  "I'll  come  dis- 
guised as  a  gargoyle  or  something.  And  we'll  have  a 
miniature  Rahiti  in  the  playground — I  beg  its  pardon, 
'campus' — and  at  night  I'll  climb  down  from  my  perch 
on  the  imitation  battlements  and  we'll  spear  goldfish 
with  a  pickle  fork  by  candlelight,  and " 

And  again  Crowther  had  contrived  to  laugh. 


298  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

So  Mata  went  "outside"  to  acquire  such  additional 
frills  as  an  enlightened  age  deems  indispensable  to 
budding  womanhood,  and  Crowther  settled  down  to 
wait  once  more,  this  time  for  two  mortal  years. 

It  was  a  dreary  business,  as  dreary  as  Mata  appeared 
to  find  her  end  of  the  contract.  Crowther  had  been 
under  the  impression  that  no  feminine  mind  was  proof 
against  the  lures  of  "outside,"  yet  after  eighteen 
months  of  them,  and  with  only  another  six  to  go,  she 
was  still,  according  to  her  unfailing  letters,  "longing  for 
Jiome,"  which  meant  Rahiti,  and  yes — himself.  The 
thought  sent  the  blood  to  his  head.  He  tried  to  laugh 
at  it,  but  found  the  process  increasingly  difficult  as  time 
passed.  Why  should  he  always  have  to  laugh?  By 
heavens,  he  would  laugh  no  more!  He  would  make  of 
Hahiti  a  home — a  real  home — worth  "longing  for"! 
He  would  — 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  what  Crowther  did  the  next 
morning  was  to  subject  his  reflection  in  the  looking  glass 
to  an  unsmiling  survey,  and  with  equal  gravity  extract 
four  gray  hairs  from  his  head.  After  which  he  set  to 
work  with  newborn  zest,  planning  certain  additions  to 
the  bungalow. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  monthly  schooner 
brought  a  youth  named  Owen  to  Rahiti  seeking  em- 
ployment. Crowther  gave  it  him,  partly  for  company 
and  partly  because  there  was  plenty  to  be  done.  He 
was  of  the  reserved,  earnest  type,  with  a  shock  of  blond 
hair,  unbelievably  pink  cheeks,  and  a  habit  of  blushing 
which  in  itself  is  a  refreshing  phenomenon  south  of  the 
Line.  Crowther  took  to  him  on  the  instant. 


THE  LAUGH  299 

"I  want  you  to  take  the  copra  entirely  off  my  hands," 
he  told  him  in  the  mosquito-proof  office  with  its  bat- 
tered, ill-kept  ledger  and  litter  of  island  specimens. 

"I'm  sick  of  the  sight  and  smell  and  feel  of  it.  I — er — 
have  other  things  to  do." 

Owen  gravely  inclined  his  head. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Crowther;  "have  a  cigar.  We'd 
better  try  and  understand  one  another  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble. What  brought  you  to  these  outrageous  parts?" 

Owen  seated  himself,  and  blushed. 

"Don't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to,"  Crowther 
added.  "It's  only  vulgar  curiosity  on  my  part." 

"I  was  in  a  bank,"  blurted  Owen. 

"Good,"  said  Crowther,  and  pushed  the  disreputable 
ledger  across  the  writing  table.  "You'd  better  take 
this  over  as  well." 

"I  have  been  going  through  it,"  said  Owen  with 
professional  gravity.  "The  system  is  bad,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so." 

"Haven't  a  doubt  of  it,"  beamed  Crowther,  "and  if 
you  can  put  it  right,  and  keep  up  the  level  of  produc- 
tion  

"Don't  you  mean  increase  production?"  corrected 
Owen. 

Crowther  laughed. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  admitted,  "though,  as  a  business, 
I'm  afraid  I've  lost  my  enthusiasm  for  Rahiti.  I  look 
upon  it  more  in  the  light  of  a  home." 

"Quite,"  agreed  Owen,  with  his  quaint  air  of 
punctiliousness.  "A  very  beautiful  home,"  he  added 
thoughtfully. 


300  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Crowther's  glance  wandered  to  the  window  with  its 
sectional  view,  like  a  framed  and  glowing  water  colour, 
of  beach  and  palm  and  sea. 

"Not  bad,"  he  muttered.     "But  nothing  to  what  I'm 

going  to  make  it "     He  turned  in  his  chair  with  an 

abrupt  reversion  to  the  subject  in  hand.  "So  if  you'll 
look  after  your  end  of  things,  Mr. — er — Owen,  I'll  look 
after  mine,  and  we'll  see  what  happens." 

What  happened  during  the  next  few  months  was 
considerable.  A  wing  was  added  to  the  bungalow 
containing  rooms — such  rooms!  There  were  y oka- 
wood  panelling,  a  standard  lamp,  mats  as  finely  woven 
as  a  Panama  hat,  and  imported  furniture  of  unsur- 
passed luxury  and  elegance.  Crowther  was  in  the 
habit  of  musing  amidst  these  splendours  as  in  a  palace 
of  dreams.  There  was  only  a  month  now — only  a 
month 

As  for  Owen,  he  appeared  incapable  of  anything  but 
work.  A  day  with  copra,  followed  by  an  evening  with 
a  new  and  immaculate  ledger,  seemed  the  acme  of  his 
desires.  Undoubtedly  there  was  some  powerful  incen- 
tive behind  the  boy's  efforts.  His  innate  earnestness 
had  developed  into  a  fervour  that  Crowther  welcomed 
as  unique  in  his  experience  of  overseers  but  was  at  a 
loss,  to  understand. 

At  a  loss,  that  is,  until  late  one  evening  he  visited  the 
boy's  quarters  and  found  him,  head  on  arms,  and  arms 
on  open  ledger,  sound  asleep. 

Crowther  shook  him  gently. 

"Hi,  this  won't  do,"  he  said.  "Sling  that  thing  in 
the  corner,  and  turn  in,  and  be  a  bit  late  to-morrow  if 


THE  LAUGH  301 

you  can  manage  it.  I'm  not  going  to  have  overseers 
killing  themselves  on  the  premises." 

Owen  looked  up,  the  habitual  flush  mounting  to  his 
cheeks.  His  folded  arms  slid  from  the  ledger,  and  with 
them  a  square  of  pasteboard  that  fluttered  to  the  floor 
at  Crowther's  feet.  He  picked  it  up  mechanically,  and 
was  returning  to  the  table  when  the  action  was  arrested 
in  mid  air.  For  a  moment  he  stood  motionless,  star- 
ing slack-jawed  at  a  photograph  of  Mata,  then  placed 
it  on  the  table  and  drew  back  into  the  shadow. 

"So  you  know  my  niece,"  he  said  evenly,  yet  in  a 
voice  that  he  failed  to  recognize  as  his  own. 

Owen  pushed  back  his  chair  and  stood  before  Crow- 
ther.  There  was  no  confusion  in  the  movement,  only 
the  supreme  self -consciousness  of  youth. 

"I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you,"  he  began. 

"But  you  didn't,"  Crowther  interpolated  sweetly, 
"so  why  should  you  now?  Because  I  happen  to  have 
blundered  on  to  your  secret?" 

"There  should  have  been  no  secret — there  is  no 
secret,"  Owen  corrected  himself;  "We  met  at  a  friend's 
house  during  the  holidays.  I — we " 

"You  can  cut  the  details,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said 
Crowther. 

"Very  well,  then,"  Owen's  head  went  up  as  though 
in  answer  to  a  challenge.  "I  love  her." 

"Naturally,"  said  Crowther.  "And  as  you're  so 
bent  on  unburdening  yourself,  what  then?" 

"I  am  working — for  her,"  answered  the  boy  simply. 
"I  came  here  because  I  knew  it  was  her  home,  and  that 
she  would  be  returning  soon.  I  was  afraid,  if  I  told 


302  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

you  of  our — acquaintance,  it  might  influence  you 
against  me." 

"Why?" 

"I  knew  how  fond  you  must  be  of  her." 

"How?" 

"Naturally,"  mimicked  Owen,  with  a  hint  of  apology. 

There  was  neither  question  nor  answer  to  that. 
Crowther  remained  silent,  his  face  mercifully  in  shadow, 
watching  the  antics  of  this  pink-cheeked  destroyer  of 
dreams.  They  had  "met  at  a  friend's  house  .  .  . 
during  the  holidays ! "  What  more  was  needed?  What 
could  be  more  natural,  in  the  most  natural  of  worlds? 
Crowther  asked  himself  this  assiduously  as  a  curb  to 
the  insane  desire  to  take  this  same  pink-cheeked  head 
and  dash  it  against  the  wall.  It  was  still  saying  some- 
thing. .  .  . 

"I  wanted  you  to  form  an  unbiassed  opinion  of  me, 
Mr.  Crowther.  Are  you  satisfied?" 

"I?"  Crowther  advanced  out  of  the  gloom.  The 
mask  of  a  smile  was  on  this  face.  "Satisfied?"  He 
had  intended  to  say  something  else — heaven  knew  what ! 
—but  instead  he  laughed. 

"You  find  it  amusing,"  Owen  accused,  with  a  ludi- 
crous air  of  offended  dignity. 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  Crowther  apologized.  "It's 
an  unfortunate  habit  of  mine.  No,  I  don't  find  it  in 
the  least  amusing,  only  satisfactory — entirely  satis- 
factory, Mr. — er — Owen.  Good -night." 

The  next  morning  Owen  was  down  with  his  first 
bout  of  fever,  and  three  days  later  Mata  arrived. 

Crowther  saw  the  schooner  creeping  down  from  the 


THE  LAUGH  303 

horizon,  and  Mata,  a  slim,  unmistakable  figure  in  the 
bows,  waving  a  handkerchief  far  out  to  sea  because  she 
knew  that  he  would  be  watching  for  her  through  the 
telescope. 

It  seemed  to  Crowther  that  the  "outside"  had  made 
surprisingly  little  difference,  or  was  it  the  fashion  of  the 
moment  for  young  ladies  in  bewilderingly  dainty  mus- 
lins, and  their  hair  "up,"  to  welcome  their  alleged 
uncles  by  nearly  strangling  them?  He  did  not  know. 
He  did  not  care. 

"Oh,  it's  good — good!"  she  cried,  clinging  to  his  arm 
and  glancing  bright-eyed  about  her  as  they  passed  along 
the  landing  and  up  the  powdered  coral  pathway  to  the 
house. 

With  the  mock  ceremony  of  a  flunkey,  Crowther 
bowed  her  into  the  palace  of  dreams.  She  sampled 
its  splendours,  from  the  white-enamelled  bedstead  to 
the  standard  lamp,  with  little  gasps  of  delight. 

"Tea  will  be  served  on  the  veranda  in  ten  minutes, 
your  ladyship,"  Crowther  announced,  and  withdrew. 

Whereupon  Mata  took  a  step  toward  the  door,  and 
paused.  Something  seemed  to  have  come  upon  her  of 
a  sudden,  out  of  nowhere,  a  mantle  of  thought  that  en- 
veloped her  until  she  found  herself  pouring  out  tea — 
from  the  same  old  pot,  into  the  same  comprehensive 
cup  with  its  three  lumps  of  sugar.  They  talked, 
talked  and  listened,  each  to  the  beloved  voice  of  the 
other,  until  Crowther  consulted  his  watch. 

"Time!"  he  called.  "I've  had  you  for  the  first 
hour,  my  lady.  More  than  my  share.  What  about 
him?" 


304  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Him?"  Mata  looked  up  in  frank  perplexity. 

"Thought  that  would  fetch  you,"  beamed  Crowther. 

"More  surprises?"  she  questioned. 

For  answer,  he  took  her  by  the  arm,  across  the  com- 
pound to  Owen's  quarters,  and,  thrusting  her  gently  in- 
side, closed  the  door. 

Then  he  went  down  to  the  beach,  and  walked  and 
walked  until  he  came  to  the  scene  of  the  wreck,  where 
he  sat  staring  into  the  depths. 

There  was  nothing  he  desired  so  much  as  solitude 
during  that  hour,  yet  presently  he  became  aware  of  a 
figure  flitting  swiftly  along  the  beach.  It  wore  a  faded 
blue  wrapper,  and  its  hair  streamed  in  the  wind.  It 
sank  at  Crowther's  side. 

"Uncle,"  it  panted,  "help  me!" 

"All  I  can,"  said  Crowther,  "but  it's  quite  simple. 
He's  the  best  overseer  I  ever  had.  He  gets  more  out 
of  Rahiti  in  six  months  than  I  used  to  in  a  year,  and  it's 
about  my  turn  for  the  *  outside.'  I'm  going  to  live 
with  a  capital  L.  I'm  going  to " 

Mata  was  not  listening,  or  failed  to  understand. 

"He  made  a  mistake,"  she  said  dully,  "a  terrible, 
terrible  mistake." 

"Impossible,"  said  Crowther.  "I'm  certain  he  never 
made  a  mistake  in  his  life." 

"He  did,"  Mata  persisted.  "Oh,  Uncle,  if  you  laugh 
at  me,  I  think  I  shall  die.  We  met " 

"At  a  friend's  house  during  the  holidays,"  prompted 
Crowther. 

"And  he  thought — I  don't  know  what  he  thought, 
but  I  never  gave  him  any  cause  to  think  it." 


THE  LAUGH  305 

"You'd  better  cut  that  part  out,"  advised  Crowther. 
"He  had  some  difficulty  over  it  himself.  He  polished 
it  off  in  the  end  by  telling  me  that  he  loved  you.  Why 
not  try  that  way,  Mata?" 

Mata  sighed. 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  I  loved  him?" 

"No,  but " 

"Well,  then "  said  Mata. 

Crowther  turned  slowly  and  looked  at  her. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  staring  out  to  sea,  "there 
happens  to  be  someone  else." 

"That's  unfortunate,"  admitted  Crowther,  "but  he 
can  be  imported  by  the  next  schooner." 

"He  doesn't  need  importing,"  said  Mata,  her  eyes 
still  turned  toward  the  crimsoning  horizon. 

There  was  silence  for  a  space. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  little  girl,"  said  Crowther  un- 
steadily. "We'd  better  defeat  all  these  complications 
by  marrying  each  other.  Not  such  a  bad  idea  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  eh?  " 

Mata  looked  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  understanding. 

"Then  you  have  come  to  think  of  it,"  she  said, 
"without — without  the  laugh?" 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM 

THERE  was  something  going  on  out  there  to  the 
westward.     The  sunset  was  the  same  miracle  of 
beauty  that  it  usually  is  near  the  Equator,  but 
below  and  beyond  them  there  hovered  a  gray -green  void 
that  slowly  spread  like  some  disfiguring  disease  over  the 
fair  face  of  the  sky.     And  the  heat!     It  was  slow  as- 
phyxiation. 

Ingram  had  seen  and  felt  all  this  before.  Once,  in 
his  overseeing  days,  it  had  heralded  the  wiping  of  a  vast 
estate  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
And  again,  only  six  years  earlier, 
it  had  spelt  the  mowing  of  a  neat 
swathe  through  three  bungalows, 
a  medley  of  "labour  lines,"  and 
five  hundred  acres  of  young  rub- 
ber. It  had  not  meant  very  much 
to  him  in  those  days;  the  devastated  properties  were 
not  his,  and  as  a  spectacle  it  had  been  magnificent. 

But  now 

He  leant  out  over  the  veranda  railing,  a  gaunt, 
anxious  figure  in  the  encroaching  gloom.  Twice  he 
looked  back  over  his  shoulder  before  speaking.  Through 
the  mosquito  door  streamed  a  flood  of  homely  yellow 
light.  His  wife  sat  beside  the  wicker  table,  sewing. 
Ingram's  grip  of  the  veranda  railing  tightened. 

306 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  307 

"Olive!"  he  called  softly. 

She  came,  a  pale  wisp  of  a  woman  in  the  loose,  flowing 
wrapper  of  the  Islands,  and  stood  beside  him  at  the  rail. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"There's  something  coming  up,"  said  Ingram,  star- 
ing over  the  sea.  "It  may  be  something,  and  it  may  be 
nothing,  but  it's  the  season,  and  we  ought  to  be  ready." 

"What  had  I  better  do?"  she  asked  him  in  a  low, 
colourless  voice. 

"Take  whatever  you  value  on  to  the  hill,"  he  told 
her — "Roko,  the  sewing-machine,  anything.  I'll  be 
there  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  went  into  the  living  room  and  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  about  her.  "Anything  she  valued!"  She 
smiled.  It  was  so  like  Bob  to  imagine  there  was  any- 
thing— on  Tahao. 

Roko,  the  fox  terrier  sybarite,  was  engaged  in  leth- 
argic fly-catching  operations  on  his  favourite  mat.  The 
sewing-machine  in  its  intensely  varnished  case  with 
gold  lettering  reflected  the  lamplight  with  customary 
brilliance.  A  dog  and  a  sewing-machine!  She  took 
them  to  the  "hill"  as  directed,  and  sat  in  the  sand  with 
her  alleged  valuables  on  either  hand,  waiting. 

Tahao  was  an  atoll,  and  what  Bob  persisted  with 
ludicrous  gravity  in  calling  the  "hill"  was  the  highest 
point  on  it,  at  least  ten  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea. 
From  its  summit  one  commanded  a  view  of  perhaps  a 
mile  more  ocean  than  could  be  seen  from  the  beach. 
Also  it  afforded  a  refuge  for  those  who  wished  to  cling 
to  the  last  delectable  moments  of  life  if  the  sea  saw  fit  to 
inundate  Tahao,  which  was  entirely  probable. 


308  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Through  the  stagnant  darkness  sounds  filtered  up  to 
the  "hill" — Bob's  deep-toned  exhortations  to  the  two 
"boys,"  their  jabbered  response,  the  methodical  thud 
of  a  maul,  the  crackle  and  scrape  of  corrugated  iron. 
Olive  knew  precisely  what  was  going  on.  They  were 
driving  pegs  deep  into  the  ground  at  the  four  corners 
of  the  house,  and  passing  wires  over  the  roof  to  hold  it 
down.  This,  their  home,  must  be  anchored  to  Tahao 
at  all  costs.  Bob  would  see  to  that.  He  invariably 
saw  to  everything.  Life,  even  on  Tahao,  was  of  such 
immense  importance  to  him. 

Olive  sat  with  hands  clasped  about  her  knees.  She 
had  thought  her  mind  long  since  numb,  but  to-night,  in 
face  of  the  omnipotent  threat  hovering  on  the  horizon, 
she  found  herself  piecing  together  the  twisted  fragments 
of  her  married  life  like  an  ineffectual  puzzle. 

No  one  could  have  faced  heavy  odds  with  more 
fortitude,  more  thoroughness,  and  less  avail  than  Bob 
Ingram.  As  incapable  of  recognizing  defeat  as  of  ac- 
complishing victory,  he  staggered  to  his  feet  after  each 
reverse  and  fought  on  with  an  ox-like  stolidity  that 
Olive  knew  to  be  heroic  and  blamed  herself  for  finding 
exasperating. 

For  three  years  he  had  striven  to  make  a  home  for  the 
woman  he  loved.  It  was  here — on  Tahao.  Then  had 
come  the  vanilla  boom.  According  to  Bob,  there  was 
nothing  like  vanilla.  The  demand  was  unlimited.  In 
five  years,  or  less,  they  would  be  in  a  position  to  install 
a  manager,  and  live  in  God's  country.  Well,  either  va- 
nilla did  not  like  Tahao,  or  Tahao  did  not  like  vanilla. 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  309 

After  eighteen  months  of  precarious  existence,  as  wear- 
ing to  the  nerves  of  its  attendants  as  that  of  an  exacting 
invalid,  it  died. 

But  what  of  that?  A  trading  cutter  was  the  thing! 
Freight  rates  were  fantastic.  The  vessel  would  pay  for 
herself  in  a  year,  and  then —  -  These  were  the  days  when 
Bob's  enthusiasms  were  infectious.  With  considerable 
pomp  the  cutter  was  christened  Olive  and  reduced  to 
matchwood  a  month  later  on  a  neighbouring  reef. 

This  was  a  calamity.  There  was  no  denying  it.  For 
a  whole  day  Bob  patrolled  the  veranda  in  subdued 
fashion,  but  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  he  returned 
to  the  attack  with  redoubled  vigour.  It  appeared  that 
he  had  explored  Tahao  lagoon  as  never  before,  and  there 
was  beche-de-mer  there,  quantities  of  it.  He  explained, 
with  the  rekindled  light  of  enthusiasm  in  his  pale  eyes, 
that  beche-de-mer  was  rapidly  coming  into  favour  as 
the  most  nutritious  of  table  delicacies,  fetching  untold 
wealth  per  ton  delivered  in  Papeete.  He  had  figured 
it  out,  and  if  he  worked  with  the  "boys,"  there  was  a 
fortune  in  it  within  two  years — or  was  it  three?  He 
consulted  an  old  envelope,  disfigured  with  pencilled 
calculations,  and  found  it  to  be  three. 

Olive  watched  them  set  out  in  the  whale  boat,  saw 
through  the  telescope  their  pigmy  figures  splashing 
through  the  lagoon  shallows  or  clambering  over  the 
reef,  and  toward  evening  the  return  of  the  heavily  laden 
whale  boat.  Then,  after  a  hasty  meal,  smoke  boxes 
were  erected  on  the  beach,  and  the  task  of  curing  the 
beche-de-mer  was  carried  on  into  the  night. 

When  the  day's  work  was  done,  Bob  flung  himself, 


310  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

exhausted,  unspeakably  begrimed,  but  happy,  into  a 
cane  chair  on  the  veranda. 

"We're  on  to  it  now,  little  woman,"  he  grinned.  And 
Olive  smiled  back,  wondering,  as  she  did  so,  why  it  was 
so  impossible  for  her  to  share  his  faith. 

She  could  not  watch  him  for  long  and  remain  inactive. 
On  the  third  evening  she  donned  a  work-worn  overall 
and  plunged  her  hands  into  the  revolting  mess.  It  was 
necessary  to  impale  each  sea  slug  on  a  little  stick  before 
placing  it  in  the  smoke  box.  Surely  she  could  do  this ! 
But  no.  Bob  seized  her  wrist  on  the  instant  and  con- 
ducted her  to  the  house  like  a  wayward  child.  It  was 
the  first  time  she  had  seen  him  really  angry. 

"I  won't  have  it!"  he  stormed.  "Whoever  heard  of 
such  a  thing?" 

Argument  she  knew  to  be  worse  than  useless.  It 
worried  him,  and  that  was  the  last  thing  Olive  wished 
to  do. 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  pleaded  later.  "If  I  can't  keep 
my  end  of  things  going,  I'm  no  good.  The  house  is 
yours." 

And  with  the  house,  and  its  predominating  features 
of  a  dog  and  a  sewing-machine,  Olive  was  forced  to  be 
content. 

"Ten  tons ! "  he  informed  her  triumphantly  at  the  end 
of  the  month.  "At  this  rate 

At  this  rate,  and  by  recourse  to  the  mathematical 
envelope,  he  was  able  to  prove  that  the  length  of  time 
required  to  make  a  fortune  had  been  over-estimated. 
It  was  two  years,  after  all,  not  three.  In  the  meantime, 
he  had  reduced  himself  to  the  resemblance  of  a  skeleton, 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  311 

and  there  was  a  feverish  light  in  his  eyes  that  Olive 
recognized  with  secret  dread. 

The  arrival  of  the  schooner  that  condescended  to  call 
at  Tahao  every  three  months  was  always  the  event  that 
may  be  imagined,  but  on  the  next  occasion,  and  after 
two  months'  intimacy  with  beche-de-mer,  it  was  noth- 
ing short  of  thrilling. 

The  captain,  a  hard-headed,  soft-hearted  Scot,  came 
ashore  in  the  whale  boat  with  his  customary  contribu- 
tions of  rum  and  cigars,  and  settled  down  on  the  ve- 
randa to  make  his  brief  visit  the  pleasant  thing  that 
it  invariably  was.  Papeete  was  booming,  it  appeared. 
There  was  talk  of  a  tramway — a  tramway  in  Papeete! 
Copra  was  soaring;  shell  was  rocketing 

"Ye  hae  nothing  for  me  this  trip?"  he  suggested  at 
last.  It  was  the  invariable  signal  that  he  must  be  going. 
He  always  said  it,  and  always  with  the  tactful  addition 
of  "this  trip,"  though  he  knew  that  not  on  this  trip,  nor 
on  any  other,  would  Tahao  supply  his  schooner  with  a 
cargo. 

And  it  was  here  that  Bob  sprang  his  child-like  sur- 
prise on  the  visitor.  Without  a  word,  and  labouring 
under  intense  excitement,  he  led  the  captain  to  the 
stores  shed  and  flung  wide  the  doors. 

From  earthen  floor  to  corrugated  iron  roof  the  place 
was  stacked  with  beche-de-mer,  representing  a  work  com- 
parable with  the  pyramids.  Had  he  anything  "this 
trip"?  Well,  he  had,  that  was  all. 

The  captain  advanced  into  the  gloom,  selected  an 
immaculately  cured  slug  from  the  pile,  and  turned  it 
slowly  on  a  horny  palm. 


312  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Is  it  all  like  this?"  he  inquired  shortly.  He  was 
talking  business  now. 

"All,"  stammered  Bob. 

The  captain  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  Too  bad,  too  bad,"  he  muttered  absently.  "  They're 
'chalk  fish',  ye  ken.  Wouldn't  pay  freight  these  days. 
Now,  if  they'd  been  'deep-water  blacks'.  .  .  ." 

At  this  juncture  he  stopped,  because  it  was  necessary 
to  lift  Bob  Ingram  from  the  ground  and  carry  him  to 
his  bed,  where  he  remained,  in  a  state  of  alternate  coma 
and  delirium,  for  upward  of  a  week. 

This  surely  was  the  end,  Olive  told  herself,  with  a 
secret  and  guilty  joy.  There  was  nothing  more  on 
Tahao  to  be  undertaken,  persisted  in,  and  failed 
over.  It  was  her  turn  now.  She  would  nurse  him 
back  to  health  and,  in  the  subtle  ways  known  only  to 
a  woman,  persuade  him  to  abandon  ambition  for  the 
less  harried  paths  of  content.  A  new  interest  had 
come  into  her  life.  Her  manner  changed,  and  Bob 
noticed  it. 

"Olive,"  he  said  one  evening,  during  his  conva- 
lescence on  the  veranda,  "Olive,  I've  been  thinking." 

"You  mustn't — yet,"  she  said.  "Try  and  rest. 
There's  plenty  of  time." 

He  turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  into  her  eyes.  "But 
that's  just  it,"  he  said;  "there  isn't.  I've  been  thinking 
about  you." 

"About  me?" 

"Yes.  I  haven't  thought  enough  about  you.  You 
— you've  been  splendid." 

"Good  gracious,  is  that  all?" 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  313 

"Not  quite.  You  need  a  change.  Tahao  is  no  place 
for  a  woman." 

So  he  realized  that.  After  three  years  Bob  realized 
that  much.  Olive's  head  bent  lower  over  the  needle- 
work in  her  lap. 

"What's  the  matter  with  clearing  out  for  a  while?" 
he  droned  on.  "Sydney,  San  Francisco,  anywhere  you 
like?" 

"Nothing  that  I  can  see,"  said  Olive  in  a  carefully 
controlled  voice.  "It  would  set  us  up." 

"Ah,  I  didn't  mean  that,"  he  objected  gently.  "I 
can't  very  well  get  away — just  now.  Later,  perhaps, 
when — when  I've  really  got  things  going  here."  He 
stirred  uneasily.  "I've  been  thinking  about  that, 
too,"  he  went  on  absently.  "I  see  now  where  I've 
been  going  wrong.  Too  much  of  a  hurry.  Too  much 
get-rich-quick.  It  can't  be  done  outside  of  a  city  office, 
and  we're  on  an  atoll.  When  you  come  down  to  bed- 
rock, there's  only  one  thing — copra." 

He  paused.  Olive  made  no  comment,  and  presently 
he  went  on. 

"Listen!"  And  she  listened,  with  the  old,  prophetic 
instinct  of  fatal  futility,  to  the  praises  of  the  cocoanut 
palm.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the  dried  kernel  of 
the  cocoanut.  It  was  currency,  and  it  was  indigenous 
to  Tahao.  He  was  a  fool  for  not  having  planted  up 
the  island  with  it  at  the  outset.  Nothing  could  hap- 
pen to  copra.  .  .  .  And  at  the  end  of  it  all  she 
said: 

"But  doesn't  it  take  seven  years  for  the  trees  to  bear?" 

He  admitted  it — admitted  it  with  a  smile  on  his  lips 


314  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

and  the  lust  of  battle  in  his  eyes.  But  this  was  not  what 
they  had  started  out  to  discuss.  What  of  the  proposed 
holiday  for  Olive? 

She  went  down  to  the  beach  and  stood  staring  across 
the  waste  of  waters  at  her  feet.  She  knew  that  if  she 
once  left  Tahao,  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  return. 
She  knew  that  she  should  never  have  married  a  pioneer, 
even  loving  him  as  she  loved  Bob.  She  was  not  of  the 
type  to  thrive  on  adversity,  to  find  each  obstacle  a  spur 
to  fresh  endeavour.  Equally,  she  was  not  of  the  type  to 
abandon  a  ship  in  distress. 

And  so  she  stayed,  while  Bob  feverishly  planted 
cocoanuts,  and  raved  of  their  rapid  growth,  and  made 
calculations  on  envelopes,  and  one  brazen  day  succeeded 
another  until  Tahao  was  transformed  from  a  glaring 
strip  of  coral  sand  into  a  promising  plantation  of  three- 
year-old  palms,  and  Olive  sat  on  the  "hill"  with  Roko 
and  the  sewing-machine,  waiting.  .  .  ,. 

They  had  finished  fastening  the  house  to  Tahao,  and 
silence  closed  down  until  there  filtered  through  it  a 
sound,  faint,  yet  seeming  to  fill  the  world.  Roko  whined 
and  snuffed  the  air  suspiciously.  The  sound  grew  in 
volume,  and  far  off  the  darkness  was  slashed  with  a 
thin  ribbon  of  phosphorescent  light.  The  sound  was 
wind,  the  light  was  a  wave,  and  with  sudden,  demoniac 
violence  the  awful  pair  descended  on  Tahao. 

The  roof  of  the  bungalow  snapped  its  puny  fastenings 
in  the  first  gust,  and  Olive  heard  it  rattling  off  into  the 
darkness  like  ineffectual  stage  thunder.  Then  she 
felt  Bob's  arm  dragging  her  down  to  the  sand.  Water 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  315 

enveloped  her.  It  was  cool  and  quiet  after  the  turmoil 
overhead.  She  hoped  that  it  would  remain.  She  prayed 
that  it  would  remain  .  .  .  But  no.  Bob  saw  to 
that.  He  invariably  saw  to  everything.  He  clung 
to  a  pandanus  root  with  one  hand,  and  his  wife 
with  the  other,  and  after  an  eternity  dragged  her  to 
her  feet. 

They  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  "hill,"  waist-deep 
in  swirling  water.  There  was  nothing  else  in  all  the 
world.  Tahao  was  gone.  Olive  swept  the  hair  from 
her  eyes  and  laughed,  and  Bob  did  his  best  to  calm  her 
hysteria.  But  it  was  not  hysteria.  It  was  just  that 
Tahao  was  gone ! 

Tahao  was  gone  for  little  more  than  an  hour.  There- 
after Olive  watched  it  reappear  as  the  sea  fell,  inch  by 
inch,  foot  by  foot,  under  the  paling  sky.  First  the 
summit  of  the  "hill "  on  which  they  stood,  and  a  few  bat- 
tered treetops,  then  the  beach  with  its  chaos  of  debris 
that  had  once  been  a  plantation  of  three-year-old 
palms.  The  eternal  sun  shone.  The  Pacific  sub- 
sided into  a  drowsy  swell. 

By  noon  the  "boys"  had  returned  in  the  whale  boat, 
to  which  they  had  clung  all  night,  and  already  Bob  was 
superintending  the  erection  of  a  pandanus  lean-to. 

"You've  been  properly  through  it,  little  woman,"  he 
said,  preparing  her  palm  frond  bed  for  the  night.  "Try 
and  sleep." 

"I'm  not  tired,"  she  said,  raising  herself  on  to  an 
elbow.  "And,  Bob " 

"Yes?" 

"What  are  we  going  to  do?  " 


316  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Do?"  He  stared  at  her  dully.  His  face  was  lined 
with  exhaustion.  "Wait  for  the  schooner." 

"And  then?" 

It  was  torture  to  question  him  now.  Olive  knew  it, 
and  persisted.  She  felt  that  she  must  know,  or  never 
sleep  again.  "Then  you're  going  to  get  out  of  here,  if 
I  know  anything,"  he  answered  her  shortly. 

"And  you?" 

He  stretched  himself  at  length  on  his  rough  couch, 
and  stared  at  the  crazy  roof,  through  which  glimmered 
the  stars. 

"I  hardly  know,"  he  said,  "yet.  Haven't  had  time 
to  think."  He  swept  the  lank  hair  from  his  forehead 
with  a  weary  gesture.  "Pretty  heart-breaking,  isn't 
it?" 

Olive  did  not  answer. 

"It  hasn't  done  for  the  lot,  though,"  he  went  on 
presently.  "  Somewhere  about  half,  I  should  think " 

"Ah,  about  half,"  repeated  Olive  mechanically. 
"And  if  it  had  'done  for  the  lot',  it  would  have  been  the 
end." 

"The  end— of  what?" 

"Of  Tahao." 

He  stared  at  the  roof  for  a  space.  "I  suppose  so," 
he  said  slowly,  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom  such  a  con- 
tingency had  never  presented  itself.  "There's  nothing 
I  hate  like  a  quitter,  but  I'm  getting  on  a  bit  to  wait 
another — another  seven  years." 

"It's  a  long  time,"  said  Olive. 

Then  she  saw  that  he  was  asleep.  And  she  had  been 
going  to  tell  him,  persuade  him  into  seeing  what  manner 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  317 

of  man  he  was,  destined,  inevitable.  That  there  are 
men  like  that,  and  that  it  is  better  for  such  to  leave  the 
scene  of  their  failures  and  start  at  the  bottom  of  the 
ladder,  if  need  be,  so  long  as  the  chain  of  fatal  futility 
be  broken.  But  it  was  too  late  now.  He  was  asleep. 
To-morrow  he  would  wake  with  a  fresh  store  of  his 
inexhaustible,  bull-headed  pertinacity.  He  would  agree 
that  she  must  go,  but  he  must  stay.  "There  was  noth- 
ing he  hated  like  a  quitter."  Would  she  have  him  lie 
down  and  admit  he  was  no  good? 

And  so  Olive  said  nothing  the  next  morning,  but 
watched  him  and  the  "boys"  scouring  the  lagoon 
shallows  for  oddments  of  salvage.  He  was  as  pleased 
as  a  child  when  they  found  two  sheets  of  the  bungalow's 
corrugated  iron  roof,  the  sewing-machine  less  ornate 
but  intact,  and  a  promiscuous  assortment  of  tinned 
provisions. 

So  the  sun-drenched  days  came  and  went  as  of  old. 
Olive  found  it  increasingly  difficult  to  sleep,  and  of  a 
night  she  had  taken  to  creeping  from  the  lean-to,  past 
the  "boys,"  sleeping  soundly  beside  the  dying  embers 
of  the  campfire,  and  up  to  the  "hill." 

From  here,  under  a  vivid  moon,  it  seemed  to  her  that 
Tahao  lay  outspread  like  a  grinning  skeleton,  with 
flesh,  in  the  form  of  the  surviving  palms  and  tangle  of 
brush-wood  banked  against  them,  still  clinging  to  the 
bones.  ... 

Tahao  was  a  bonfire,  ready  laid!  The  thought 
sprang  at  her  one  night  like  a  beast  of  prey.  Here  was 
an  end !  Even  he  had  said  so.  She  thrust  it  from  her, 
but  it  returned  with  the  force  of  irrefutable  logic.  It 


318  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

would  be  better  for  him — in  the  end.  She  was  certain 
of  that.  A  flame,  a  mere  spark,  with  the  trade  wind 
behind  it,  and  the  thing  was  done.  It  could  so  easily 
happen  .  .  .  the  campfire  ...  no  one  would 
guess  .  .  .  and  after  a  time,  when  he  had  found  his 
niche  back  there  in  the  world,  she  would  tell  him — she 
would  have  to  tell  him — and  he  would  laugh.  They 
would  laugh  together  over  Tahao. 

What  was  it  that  made  her  pause  for  a  single  instant? 
She  did  not  know.  But  neither  did  she  move  from  the 
summit  of  the  "hill." 

And  it  was  while  she  sat  there,  her  hair  streaming  in 
the  wind,  her  eyes  transfixed  on  space,  that  the  miracle 
happened,  though  in  reality  it  was  no  miracle,  but  the 
most  natural  occurrence  in  the  world.  A  gust  caught 
the  embers  of  the  campfire  and  scattered  them  wide. 
Olive  did  not  see  it.  All  she  saw  was  a  light  on 
the  beach.  For  a  moment  she  stared  at  it  spellbound, 
incredulous,  the  next  she  had  sped  down  the  slope 
with  a  warning  cry  and  was  trampling  on  a  ser- 
pent of  fire  that  writhed  ahead  of  her  through  the 
tangle  of  brush,  always  ahead,  always  just  beyond 
reach. 

How  long  the  battle  lasted  she  had  no  notion,  but  this 
she  knew — that  it  was  Bob,  Bob  himself,  who  first  cried 
a  halt.  Sweating,  begrimed,  he  burst  through  the 
smoke  and  bore  her  out  of  the  inferno. 

"Olive,"  he  kept  muttering,  "Olive!" 

Tahao  was  a  semicircle  of  leaping  flame.  He  took 
her  to  the  "hill"  and  together  they  watched  it  burn 
itself  out. 


THE  INEVITABLE  INGRAM  319 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done,"  he  said,  "nothing. 
This  is  the  end." 

And  he  spoke  truth. 

He  left  with  his  wife  by  the  schooner,  and  has  long 
since  ceased  to  be  the  Inevitable  Ingram. 


THE  SPELL 

IF  FENNER  had  thrown  away  that  absurd  wreath 
of  flowers,  things  might  have  turned  out  differ- 
ently. I — even  I — admit  that  now,  because  I 
know. 

Jimmy  Fenner  enjoyed  a  huge  popularity  on  Miatu, 
and  it  was  not  of  the  "grog"  variety,  either.  I  don't 
believe  he  had  ever  given  a  nigger  alcohol  in  his  life. 
He  had  the  right  temperament,  that  was  all;  and,  as 
surely  as  a  dog  or  a  child  knows  its  friend,  so  surely  does 
the  South  Sea  Kanaka  recognize  and  appreciate  a  kin- 
dred spirit. 

There  were  those  "at  home"  who  deplored  Jimmy 
Fenner.  They  said  there  was  nothing  in  him,  and 
neither  was  there — of  evil.  For  all  his  six  feet  of  good- 
looking,  powerfully  built  manhood,  backed  by  an  in- 
come that  would  have  been  the  ruination  of  most  men, 
he  was  a  child — pleasure-loving,  irresponsible,  simple  of 
soul. 

But  to  return  to  the  absurd  wreath  of  flowers.  It 
was  made  of  crimson  drala  blossoms  and  thrown  to  him 
from  one  of  the  canoes  that  swarmed  round  the  schooner 
like  a  flock  of  sea  birds.  Fenner  was  standing  at  the 
rail,  and  when  he  slipped  the  wreath  over  his  head, 
and  stood  there  like  a  six-foot,  twentieth-century  Dryad, 
a  great  shout  went  up. 

320 


THE  SPELL  321 

"Ah,  of  course,"  he  muttered,  and  smiled  whim- 
sically. He  had  learnt  something  of  Island  custom  in 
the  last  six  months  and  knew  that  if  a  man  did  this,  it 
meant  that  he  would  return.  "What  a  liar  I  am,"  he 
added  guiltily. 

"Samoce,  Samoce!"  he  called  over  the  water  as  the 
schooner  headed  for  the  channel  in  the  barrier  reef,  then 
turned  abruptly  from  the  rail  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"It's  been  a  great  time,  Clem,"  he  said  with  a  catch 
in  his  voice  that  I  attributed  to  smoke. 

"Great,"  I  agreed. 

"There's  nothing  quite  like  it, "  he  added  after  a  pause. 

"No,  nothing,"  I  answered. 

He  glanced  at  me  with  a  certain  disappointment, 
walked  aft,  and  stood  looking  out  over  our  wake  to 
where  a  green  dot  that  was  Miatu  danced  in  the  shim- 
mering heat  haze. 

There  was  cause  for  his  disappointment.  I  should 
have  enthused  over  these  fairy  isles  and  their  child-like 
people.  I  should  have  met  his  mood,  and  capped  com- 
parative with  superlative,  for  it  would  all  have  been 
genuine,  but — I  was  thinking  of  Lady  Fenner,  already 
wondering  how  I  should  account  for  our  long-delayed 
return  to  civilization  and  things  practical.  Fenner's 
mother  was  methodical,  and  after  the  fashion  of  such 
people,  demanded  method  in  others.  "Why  had  I  not 
returned  on  the  date  specified?"  I  could  hear  her  ask- 
ing the  question  in  her  incisive  falsetto.  "Because 
Fenner  wouldn't  leave ! "  It  sounded  weak  on  my  part, 
and  savoured  of  betrayal.  "Because  the  tropics  are 
demoralizing,  and—  But  that  was  worse. 


322  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

Between  Miatu  and  Levuka,  Fenner  spent  most  of 
his  time  hunched  on  the  deck,  staring  over  his  knees. 

"Whew!"  I  exclaimed,  strolling  past  him  for  the  third 
time  without  being  noticed.  "You've  still  got  those 
flowers  round  your  neck.  They're  getting  high." 

He  looked  down  at  them,  then  at  me. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  absently. 

"Heigh  ho  for  a  few  theatres,"  I  sighed  presently, 
looking  for'ard. 

"Don't,"  he  snapped,  still  staring  aft. 

I  left  him.  It  would  wear  off,  I  decided.  There  was 
plenty  of  time. 

At  lunch — fish,  turtle  steak,  taro,  and  pineapples — 
he  became  more  communicative. 

"With  another  three  months'  practice  Pope  would 
make  a  really  fine  bat, "  he  observed,  apropos  of  nothing. 
Then  again:  "A  year's  sound  coaching  for  the  whole 
team  and  they'd  give  the  average  county  club  a  run  for 
its  money."  Or:  "I  can  just  see  Miatu  with  a  res- 
ident's bungalow  on  Beritania  Hill;  white,  of  course, 
with  an  avenue  of  coral  and  pandanus.  They've  got 
the  secret,  Clem;  there's  no  getting  away  from  that." 

"Secret  of  what?"  I  demanded  brusquely.  It  is  a 
dangerous  sign  when  a  healthy,  normal  young  man  be- 
gins to  talk  about  houses  on  hills  with  pandanus  ave- 
nues. 

"Life,"  said  Fenner. 

"That  isn't  life,"  I  told  him,  waving  a  dramatic  hand 
in  the  wrong  direction;  "it's  a  dream,  a  pleasant  one 
I'll  grant,  but  you'll  wake  up  the  minute  you  rub  shoul- 
ders with  your  own  world. " 


THE  SPELL  323 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  so 
did  I — until  we  reached  Levuka,  where  four  cablegrams 
from  Lady  Fenner  persuaded  me  that  I  had  spoken 
nothing  but  the  truth. 

I  think  Fenner  was  "wondering"  most  of  the  way  to 
London.  He  kept  very  much  to  himself,  and  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  a  deck  chair,  smoking,  and  looking 
out  to  sea,  with  his  hands  interlocked  behind  his 
head. 

He  was  to  stand  for  Parliament,  and  marry  a  Miss 
Strickland,  Lady  Fenner  informed  me  on  our  return  to 
Craigmoor. 

"Oh,  yes, "  I  murmured,  or  something  equally  absurd. 

Lady  Fenner  fixed  me  with  the  penetrating  gray  eyes 
that  had  haunted  me  from  Levuka  to  London. 

"The  tour  was  a  mistake,"  she  announced  with  her 
usual  abruptness.  "It  was  badly  managed." 

I  wanted  to  ask  her  how  she  would  have  ordered  the 
movements  of  a  twenty-five-year-old  child  of  independ- 
ent means  and  nature  during  a  year's  world  wanderings, 
but  refrained.  She  would  have  told  me. 

"Rex  was  to  have  seen  the  world,"  she  accused. 
"But  from  what  I  can  learn  he  has  seen  nothing  but 
some  islands — somewhere  or  other.  What  was  the 
attraction?" 

My  eye  wandered  through  the  bay  window  over 
Craigmoor's  well-ordered  acres,  then  conjured  a  vision 
of  Miatu  on  a  moonlit  night  with  brown-skinned  men 
and  women  dancing  a  meke. 

"I  really  can't  say,"  I  admitted,  "except " 

"Yes?" 


324  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Except  that  they  were  very  beautiful,  and  we  stayed 
there  some  time. " 

Lady  Fenner  frowned.  From  boyhood  I  remembered 
that  frown,  and  still  feared  it. 

"There  was — nothing  else?  No  feminine  attrac- 
tion?" Lady  Fenner  leant  forward.  "Remember, 
Clem,  you  are  Rex's  oldest — only  friend;  I  relied  on 

you." 

"No,  no,  certainly  not,"  I  stammered.  "It  was, 
well,  just  the  place.  I  can't  define  its  attractions  ex- 
actly— no  one  has  been  able  to  from  Stevenson  down- 
ward— but,  there  it  was.  " 

"And  here  it  is  still  apparently,"  snapped  Lady  Fen- 
ner. "Rex  is  not  the  same.  I  hoped — I  always 
thought — that  extensive  travel  only  proved  that  there 
is  no  place  like  home. " 

We  talked  a  great  deal  more  about  Rex,  Craigmoor, 
and  the  future,  but  I  left  with  a  vague  presentiment 
that  in  "  those  islands,  somewhere  or  other, "  Lady  Fen- 
ner had  found  her  match,  if  not  her  master. 

"I  can't  stand  this,"  Fenner  told  me  one  day  in  town. 
"Just  look  at  it!" 

I  looked,  and  saw  Hyde  Park  on  a  May  morning. 

"Well?"  I  demanded.  "What's  the  matter  with 
it?" 

"I  don't  mean  this  exactly,"  he  answered,  indicating 
the  Row  with  a  flick  of  his  stick,  "although  it's  futile 
enough  in  its  own  way — liver  brigade,  clothes,  pretence, 
pretence,  pretence — but  everything.  They're  trying  to 
make  me  stand  for  Parliament. " 

"It  doesn't  appeal  to  you?" 


THE  SPELL  325 

"Appeal?"  He  struck  savagely  at  a  pebble,  and 
sent  it  hurtling  into  the  wheels  of  a  passing  perambu- 
lator. "Look  at  the  finished  article!" 

"You'd  sooner  umpire  at  Miatu,"  I  sneered. 

He  stopped  in  his  stride  and  confronted  me.  His 
face  was  transfigured. 

"Just  that!"  he  said;  and  the  trouble  was  I  could 
entirely  sympathize. 

"Went  to  a  theatre — and  supper  the  other  night," 
he  mumbled  presently.  "Such  drivel!  Such  belly 
worship!" 

"Perhaps  you'd  prefer  a  meke  and  a  fish  feast?"  I 
suggested. 

He  looked  at  me,  but  did  not  answer  with  his  lips. 

In  the  circumstances  I  was  hardly  surprised  at  re- 
ceiving an  urgent  wire  from  Lady  Fenner  toward  the 
end  of  June. 

"He's  gone,"  she  said  as  soon  as  the  drawing-room 
door  had  closed.  "Vanished!" 

I  had  never  seen  Lady  Fenner  so — I  was  going  to  say 
"human."  She  was  agitated,  and  showed  it. 

"Good  gracious!"  I  exclaimed,  with  as  much  aston- 
ishment as  I  could  muster. 

"And  in  the  midst  of  everything!"  she  wailed.  "He 
left  me  this.  Read  it,  and  tell  me  what  it  means." 

I  read: 

MY  DEAR  MATER: 

It's  no  go;  I  can't  stand  it.  I  avoided  farewells  because  they 
would  mean  explanations  that  I  couldn't  give,  and  you  wouldn't 
understand.  Ask  Clem;  I  think  he  has  an  inkling. 

I'm  sorry  to  have  upset  all  your  arrangements,  but,  after  all,  what 
does  it  matter?  If  you  are  as  annoyed  over  this  as  I  expect  you 


326  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

will  be,  keep  saying  that — "What  does  it  matter?"  and  you'll  get  as 
near  to  my  reasons  for  cutting  it  all  as  I  could  ever  take  you. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

REX. 

I  pretended  to  be  reading  for  several  seconds  after 
I  had  finished.  I  could  feel  an  outraged  mother's  eyes 
riveted  upon  me.  What,  in  Heaven's  name,  was  I  to 
tell  her?  What  I  suspected — that  because  he  had 
worn  an  absurd  wreath  of  drala  blossoms  when  he  left 
Miatu  he  was  bound  to  return  there?  Yes,  even  at 
that  time  I  had  begun  to  wonder.  .  .  .  But  the 
mere  thought  of  offering  such  a  preposterous  suggestion 
to  Lady  Fenner  in  the  drawing  room  of  Craigmoor 
must  have  brought  a  shadow  of  a  smirk  to  my  lips.  I 
heard  Lady  Fenner  speaking. 

"  Is  this  a  practical  joke  ?  "    Her  tone  was  almost  eager. 

I  looked  up  at  that. 

"No,"  I  said.  "It's  not  a  joke.  He  has  gone  back 
to  Miatu." 

"Miatu?" 

"Yes;  an  island  in  the  Lau  group,  west  of  Fiji. " 

"But "  Lady  Fenner  swallowed  something,  and 

looked  about  the  room. 

"We  may  as  well  face  it,"  I  went  on  with  a  sudden 
access  of  candour.  "He  has  gone  back  to  the  Islands 
because  he  likes  the  life  there  better  than  here.  It's 
quite  possible,  you  know.  What's  more,  I  doubt  if  he 
means  to  come  back. " 

Then  it  was  that  Lady  Fenner  rallied  her  forces- 
such  forces! — and  for  a  solid  hour  I  was  attacked, 
propitiated,  flattered,  argued  into  pledging  myself  to 
do  my  utmost  to  bring  back  her  son. 


THE  SPELL  327 

"I  relied  on  you,"  was  her  parting  shot,  and  two 
weeks  later  I  sailed  for  the  South  Seas,  primed  to  the 
brim  with  every  argument,  every  appeal,  calculated  to 
swell  the  heart  if  not  the  mind  of  man. 

I  was  sick  to  death  of  them  by  the  time  I  reached 
Colombo,  not  altogether  sure  of  them  at  Sydney,  and 
at  Miatu  the  last  vestige  of  them  was  wiped  from  my 
mind  like  a  drawing  from  a  slate.  I  was  still  frenziedly 
groping  for  them  as  I  walked  up  the  powdered  coral 
pathway  to  the  guest  house.  What  was  it  in  this  in- 
fernal paradise  of  a  place  that  made  one  forget? 

Red  earth  paths,  vivid  greensward,  shady  cocoanut 
palms,  and  yellow  sunlight  all  was  the  same,  except  for 
a  wooded  hill  behind  and  above  the  village.  Here  a 
score  of  natives  were  leisurely  felling  trees  or  squatting 
in  circles,  alternately  rolling  banana-leaf  salukas  and 
scraping  bamboos  with  their  copra  knives. 

I  found  Fenner  entertaining  the  Buli  at  afternoon  tea. 

"  Well,  well,  well, "  he  drawled,  and  pushed  me  into  a 
wicker  chair.  "Kavaortea?" 

"Whisky-and-soda,  thanks,"  I  replied. 

He  shook  his  head  and  dropped  one  eyelid. 

"'Fraid  we  can't  do  it.  But  I  can  recommend  the 
tea;  it's  Miatu." 

The  Buli  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Vinaka,  vinaka  Miatu!"  he  chuckled,  and  waddled 
out  into  the  sunlight. 

Fenner  stretched  his  legs  and  yawned,  then  went 
over  to  a  cupboard  in  the  corner  and  produced  a  whisky 
tantalus. 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  my  welcome,"  he  said, 


328  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

pushing  it  across  the  table.  "I  thought  the  old  Buli 
would  have  a  fit.  And  the  others — nothing  would  do 
them  but  they  must  build  me  a  house — you  remember 
my  house — on  the  hill  behind  the  village;  they're  at  it 
now. " 

For  a  while  he  sat  watching  me  at  my  whisky-and- 
soda.  Suddenly  he  laughed,  and  I  think  it  was  that 
riling  laugh  that  brought  back  to  me  in  a  flood  all 
Lady  Fenner's  arguments. 

"Fire  ahead,"  he  jeered.  "You're  aching  to  get  it 
off  your  chest,  and  I'm  ready  now;  I'm  on  my  native 
heath." 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  persuade  you  to  come  home." 
"Back  to  England,  you  mean?" 
"Yes." 

"Of  course  you  are;  fire  ahead." 
"You    owe    it    to    your    mother — to     Craigmoor. 
Think- 

"Do  you  suppose  I  haven't  thought,  Clem?"  He 
was  serious  now,  and  leant  forward,  tapping  the 
wicker  table  with  a  strong  brown  finger.  "Do  you 
suppose  I  didn't  cudgel  my  brains  almost  to  bits  before 
taking  this  step?  I  owe  the  mater  nothing  except  the 
accident  of  birth.  As  for  Craigmoor,  I'm  on  the  credit 
side  there. " 

"Your  mother  wants  you." 

"Does  she?  It's  funny  she's  never  shown  it  before. 
But,  yes,  I  admit  she  may  want  me — for  Parliament  or 
some  equally  futile  career,  so  that  she  can  hear  people 
say  of  her  son : '  He's  getting  on,'  or  *  He's  a  coming  man.' 
Getting  on — toward  what?" 


THE  SPELL  329 

"Work  of  some  kind  is  necessary  for  every  man." 
I  remembered  that  very  distinctly.  It  had  sounded 
well — in  the  drawing  room  at  Craigmoor. 

"It  all  depends  what  you  call  work.  A  lover  of  birds 
is  '  working'  when  he  studies  their  habits.  A  botanist — 
a  naturalist " 

"Work  is  doing  something  that  one  doesn't  particu- 
larly care  about,"  I  ventured.  "We  need  it  as  a  dis- 
cipline, restraint.  It's  the  curse  of  Adam,  but  somehow 
it  still  holds  good. " 

Fenner  smiled  his  exasperating  smile. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is  that  we're  out  of  the  cursed 
area  here,"  he  drawled.  "I  don't  feel  as  if  I  ought  to 
be  doing  something  I  don't  particularly  care  about. 
What's  more,  I  don't  do  it,  and  behold — a  man ! "  He 
protruded  his  deep  chest  and  thumped  it  triumphantly. 

"You'll  'go  native,'"  I  suggested. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answered  suavely.  "I  wear  seven 
duck  suits  a  week,  and  live — as  you  see.  Besides, 
although  I  don't  work  according  to  your  standards,  I 
have  interests — plenty  to  occupy  me.  We're  planning 
a  polo  ground.  I'm  getting  in  some  Tongan  ponies. 
Then  there's  the  tea;  that  was  my  idea." 

I  felt  that  we  were  straying  from  the  point. 

"Look  here,"  I  blurted  desperately,  "you  have  an 
income  of  fifteen  thousand  pounds  a  year.  Is  it  going 
to  lie  idle?" 

"Ah,"  mused  Fenner,  "I  never  thought  of  that.  I 
see  your  point — I'm  receiving  without  giving.  Quite 
good!  Would  you  like  it?  I  don't  want  it. " 

"I?" 


330  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

"Yes;  it's  you  or  a  charity.     Which  shall  it  be?" 

"Good  heavens!"  I  gasped.  "You're  not  all  there, 
Rex.  Think,  man — think  what  it  means. " 

"I've  done  all  the  money  thinking  I'm  going  to  do," 
said  Fenner.  "Have  a  cigarette." 

"But " 

"Have  a  cigarette." 

I  took  one  and  lit  it  mechanically. 

"You're  under  a  spell,  Rex — that's  it,"  I  muttered, 
looking  at  him  across  the  table. 

"Perhaps,"  he  admitted,  emitting  smoke  with  the 
words.  "It's  very  pleasant.  I  see  nothing  against 
it." 

He  levered  himself  out  of  his  chair  and  came  round  to 
me. 

"It's  no  good,  Clem,"  he  said;  "they've  discovered 
the  secret  of  life  on  Miatu,  and  I'm  going  to  share  it 
with  them. " 

"And  the  secret?"  I  suggested,  with  a  poor  effort 
at  superiority.  I  must  have  looked  foolish  as  I  said  it, 
for  he  laughed  his  deep,  riling  laugh. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  know?"  he  queried. 
"Happiness,  you  old  fathead!  Come  and  have  a  look 
at  the  tea. " 

During  the  sun-bathed  days  that  followed  I  was  torn 
between  the  growing  conviction  that  Fenner  was  right 
and  my  pledge  to  his  mother.  How  was  the  man  to  be 
moved?  For  hours  I  would  sit  thinking  out  crushing 
arguments  that  Fenner  dispersed  as  though  they  had 
been  smoke. 

His  obstinacy  annoyed  me  intensely,  but,  had  I 


THE  SPELL  331 

known  it,  his  annoyance  was  far  greater  than  mine.  It 
found  vent  with  startling  unexpectedness. 

We  were  walking  along  the  beach  road  with  .22  rifles 
on  the  off  chance  of  pigeon,  and,  as  usual,  I  was  im- 
proving— or  trying  to  improve — the  occasion  with  my 
half-hearted  appeals  to  his  better  judgment,  when  he 
turned  on  me  with  a  swiftness  of  which  I  had  never 
dreamt  him  capable.  I  had  never  seen  Fenner  angry 
in  my  life,  but  I  did  now,  and  it  was  not  pleasant. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  evenly,  but  his  teeth  were 
bared,  "I'm  sick  of  this — sick  of  you.  When  are  you 
going?" 

"When  you  come  with  me,"  I  managed  to  jerk  out. 

"Well,  you'll  die  and  rot  here  before  that,"  he 
answered,  still  with  a  terrible  restraint.  "And  I  don't 
want  a  man  who  has  been  my  friend  doing  that  on 
Miatu.  You  leave  here  to-morrow,  or  I  won't  be  an- 
swerable for  the  consequences. " 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean  by  that?"  I  demanded, 
aghast. 

"What  I  say." 

"You  must  be  mad." 

"Perhaps — a  homicidal  maniac.  But  there  it  is: 
you  leave  here  to-morrow,  or  you'll  be  shot." 

"And  who  will  do  the  shooting?" 

"I  will." 

He  meant  it.  In  that  instant  I  realized  that  he 
actually  meant  it.  We  spoke  no  more  that  day. 

After  my  bath  the  next  morning  I  found  all  my 
belongings  packed  and  piled  outside  the  guest  house, 
and  Fenner  sitting  in  the  doorway  with  a  rifle  across 


332  SOUTH  OF  THE  LINE 

his  knees.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  follow  the 
porters  down  to  the  waiting  cutter.  I  never  felt  so  small 
in  my  life,  but  what  was  the  use  of  coming  to  violence? 

I  had  already  stepped  aboard  when  Fenner  strolled 
down  the  landing. 

"  Good-bye,  Clem, "  he  said. 

I  think  I  grunted. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  back  any  time — when 
you've  changed  your  views.  At  present  they're  boring, 
and  we're  not  cultivating  boredom  on  Miatu.  By  the 
way,"  he  added,  as  the  boys  began  hauling  on  the 
main  sheet,  "about  that  fifteen  thou'  a  year:  it's  going 
to  Charing  Cross  Hospital  unless  I  hear  from  you  to 
the  contrary  inside  of  two  months.  Think  it  over." 

I  leant  over  the  gunwale. 

"Go  to  the  devil!"  I  exploded.  Lord,  how  he 
annoyed  me! 

"  'Fraid  we  don't  cultivate  him,  either,  on  Miatu, " 
said  Fenner,  and  smiled  his  exasperating,  self-satisfied 
smile.  Suddenly  it  was  blotted  out.  Something  had 
hurtled  between  us,  and  fell  in  a  jumble  about  my  neck. 
A  great  shout  went  up  from  the  natives  on  the  wharf 
when  it  was  seen  to  be  a  wreath  of  scarlet  drala  blossoms. 

For  an  instant  I  fought  with  the  desire  to  tear  it  from 
me  and  fling  it  into  the  sea.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that 
this  would  be  rather  a  childish  thing  to  do,  so  I  left  it 
where  it  was  as  the  cutter  slid  from  the  wharf  and 
headed  for  the  channel  in  the  barrier  reef. 

"I've  failed,"  I  told  Lady  Fenner,  "That's  all  I 
can  say — I've  failed. " 


THE  SPELL  333 

I've  no  idea  now  what  she  said  to  me;  I  was  thinking 
of  other  things. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  I  had  booked  my  passage,  and 
in  two  more  I  was  walking  up  a  coral  and  pandanus 
avenue  to  a  white  house  on  the  hill  behind  the  village 
at  Miatu. 

"I've  changed  my  views,"  I  said. 

"Come  in,"  said  Fenner. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  038  408     1 


